


she keeps me warm

by toastweasel



Series: The Gallaro Equation [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Coming Out, F/F, Gender Identity, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-02-25 22:56:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13222986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toastweasel/pseuds/toastweasel
Summary: As a dyke of fifty years, Reverend Max Kushing seems pretty easy to read. She's the lead pastor at a successful gay church in Boston, the treasurer of the city's Dykes on Bikes Boston chapter, and the proud owner of three English bulldogs. However, there's more to her carefully tailored business attire and tight leather motorcycle pants than meets the eye.When Sam Fitzgerald starts attending the the Metropolitan Community Church in Cambridge, she has no idea that approaching the lead pastor to support queer youth groups of color would end up with her falling in love with an anxious Tolkein nerd struggling to live authentically as a genderqueer lesbian. And, frankly, Max had no idea either.





	1. Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reposting from "stop the world, take a picture"...those chapters will eventually be deleted. Max and Sam's story will continued to be updated here.
> 
> "she keeps me warm" takes place in the early 21st century, starting in September 2000. 
> 
> Max Kushing: https://www.pinterest.com/toastweaseofdoom/max-kushing/  
> Sam Fitzgerald: https://www.pinterest.com/toastweaseofdoom/sam-fitzgerald/

 “Excuse me, Reverend, might I have a word?”

Max turns around from talking to a member of her staff after Sunday service to find a parishioner standing behind her. She recognizes her—this woman is one of the only African American members of the congregation, and she is a new one at that. She only started coming about a month ago; Max does not even know her name yet.

Max dips her head in acknowledgement. “Of course.”

“Privately?”

The pastor pauses, momentarily taken aback. Most people just mill around after service and catch her in the sanctuary if they want to talk. Still, she is nothing if not accommodating, even if her anxiety is niggling at the back of her brain telling her something is wrong. She runs a hang through her short black hair. “Sure. Would you like to talk in my office?”

A nod.

“Okay. C’mon back.” Max starts off, the pauses and makes sure she is following. The woman adjusts her bag strap and starts after her. As they walk from the sanctuary to her office she says, “I’m afraid I only know your face. What’s your name?”

“Sam.”

Max reckons the woman looks like a Sam. She’s got a masculine face, her hair is shorn off close to her head and bleached, and her ears sport multiple glittering piercings. Their congregation is not a formal one, but she’s wearing a floral-print blazer and slacks. She looks like an interesting person to get to know, so Max makes small talk as she fishes in her pocket for her office keys.

“What do you do, Sam?”

“I’m a prosecutor.”

Max looks up from unlocking the door. “No shit? That’s got to be an exciting job!”

Sam’s face remains indifferent.

Panic clouds Max’s brain. Shit shit shit shit. The pastor fumbles with the doorknob; she can feel the desire to start talking to relieve her stress bubbling up.  _‘Keep it together, Max, for fucks sake.’_

She manages to get the door open, laughing off the time it took with a nervous, “Sticky lock. C’mon in, Sam. We can sit on the couch. Can I run and get you anything?”

“No, I’m fine.” Sam looks around, clearly judging the décor and Max’s wall of degrees and awards.

The pastor’s stomach clenches.

She isn’t supposed to feel like this when she is in Reverend mode. She’s not supposed to be anxious. She’s supposed to be calm, cool, and in charge. To resist the urge to pace Max moves to get the door to give them the privacy Sam requested.

“Leave the door open, please.”

Max stops, turns, and gingerly takes a seat on the couch in the corner of her office. Sam takes one final look around then takes a seat in the chair next to the couch.

“So…” Max is aware that she’s fidgeting with her hands. She crosses her legs and tucks one hand under her thigh to stop the anxious tick. “What can I do for you, Sam?”

“I wanted to discuss something you said today during your sermon.”

Max’s stomach bottoms out. Instantly every possible cringe-worthy thing she possible could have done or said that morning runs through her head in nauseating high definition. “O-Oh?”

“Yes.” Sam crosses her legs as well, but rests her hands on top of her knee instead. A power pose. “You seem like a reasonable woman, so I decided to bring it to your attention.”

Fuck. What had she said? She’s barely keeping her cool; the constriction of her button up and clerical collar around her throat reminds her of the character she has to maintain. She takes what she hopes is a subtle calming breath. “Well…I appreciate you deciding to bring it up with me. What seems to be the problem?”

“At the end of your sermon, you made the call for donations to the pride Youth Alliance Center.”

Max rankles a bit, despite her anxiety. “Ma’am, this sanctuary joins _all_  people in a diverse, inclusive worship of—“

“I know,” Sam snaps, waving her hand in a shushing gesture. “One would have to be an idiot not to notice when they walked in this was a gay church. Let me finish.”

The pastor shrinks back a bit and gestures for her to continue.

“The past four sermons, since I have come to attend service, this church has not once called to support youth of color.” Sam pauses to make certain the implications hit home. “I asked around, and this church has never supported Out Now or MAP or even the Youth Adult Resource Network.”

“No,” Max allows, thinking back on all the charities they have supported over the years. “We have not.”

“If I am going to attend this church, I want to know that LGBT youth of color are just as supported as the white ones. And you seem like the woman who can put this into motion if it is not already.”

“Well…” Max wipes her suddenly clammy palms on her slacks. She does not like what Sam is implying, but she cannot deny the fact that her church does not, in fact, support many (if any) groups that support queer youth of color. “I am not the one who does the outreach to these charities, but I…I will look into the issue myself. You have my word.”

Sam nods crisply. “When will you have results?”

The pastor falters. “Uh, well—I don’t…know?”

“How can I take you as a woman of your word if you cannot give me a possible result date?” the prosecutor counters. “I know from experience those who do not give deadlines do not get anything done.”

“You have my word before God,” Max replies seriously, then because she’s an anxious little shit who is desperate to please, “I’ll—I’ll look into the issue and if you attend service next Sunday I will report back to you then. Is that….is that okay?”

Sam, thankfully, seems pleased by that answer. Max is thankful, because He only knows what would have come tumbling out of her mouth if she had not been.

The prosecutor moves to stand. “Thank you, Reverend.”

“Max,” the pastor replies earnestly, standing and offering her her hand. “Please, call me Max.”

Sam looks at her, then takes her hand. Her grip is strong. “Max.”

Max takes a step towards the door of her office. “There might still be donuts and coffee left if we hurry.”

“I have to get going,” Sam replies, picking up her bag and stepping out of her office, “but thank you. Until next week.”

“Next week,” the pastor promises.

.

.

.

 “—and as I close today, I would like to draw everyone’s attention in for just one second.” Max waits for everyone to focus in on her; she met eyes with each and every person before speaking again. “As you know, we collect every week not just for our church, but also for a charity that we give to in the name of God’s love. This week our charity is Youth on Fire. Some of you know it—it’s the brand new drop-in center for homeless and street involved youth run by the AIDS Action Committee.

“As our community works to heal and uplift itself, it is important that we think not only of ourselves, but also of the future of our community’s youth. Some of these kids are at their lowest low—and they are just kids. They need God’s message of love, light, and forgiveness more than ever, which is why we will be partnering with Youth On Fire in the upcoming months to run a youth program there. This program will work to uplift these kids through His message. However, this is a ways off, so for now, please join me in giving whatever you can spare to Youth on Fire this week, and keep the young people who utilize Youth on Fire’s services in your prayers. Thank you. Amen.”

“Amen,” the congregation replies.

Max collects her notes and steps off the pulpit. Unsurprisingly she is immediately approached by congregation members—she always spends time after her sermons giving reassurance, offering prayers, and comforting those who need it. She inquires after sick family members, bleak financial situations, job interview follow ups. She notices Sam standing towards the back of those who wish to speak with her, giving them space.

Finally, when the bulk of the crush has shifted away, Sam comes forward. “So you did do your research.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Max replies, sticking a hand in her pocket, a tinge of cockiness on display.

Sam is not having any of it. She crosses her arms over her chest. “Who else have you contacted?”

The pastor deflates a bit. “True Colors. Couple of others. I actually wanted to ask you for recommendations.”

The corner of Sam’s mouth twitches up and Max’s anxiety dances a small victory. “GLASS and Out Now to start.”

Max scrambles for the pen on the pulpit and scribbles notes down on the back of her sermon. Sam keeps listing and Max keeps scribbling. “Wow, these are great. I’ll look into them immediately.”

Sam nods, seemingly pleased. “Thank you for taking this seriously.”

“Of course.” Max fusses with the pen between her fingers, staring down at the scrawl of her notes. “Do you…possibly have time to discuss some of these? Elaborate on them further?”

The prosecutor checks her watch. “I should for another hour or so. But I would prefer we not do it here.”

The pastor is baffled, but nods. “I have to stay for another few hours…could we meet up during the week some time?”

A well-manicured eyebrow wings high. “You do realize I am a very busy woman?”

 Max bites back the urge to be defensive. “I understand but…I would value your expertize. And having our outreach at least seemingly well researched would make any offer the church makes sound more sincere.”

Sam looks unconvinced.

“Please.”

The other woman sighs and reaches into her bag, pulling out a much-abused leather day timer. Max waits as she flips through it. “The only time I have readily available this week is Thursday morning. Eight o’clock?”

“I’ll have to bring my dogs,” Max says immediately. “We have work at nine-thirty.”

Sam’s eyebrow goes high again.

The pastor’s gut clenches and glances around to make sure nobody is eavesdropping; thankfully everyone seems quite invested in the doughnuts and coffee at the refreshments table. “They are therapy dogs,” she confesses quietly. “We visit General on Thursdays.”

“Then it is a good thing I work nearby,” Sam replies. “There’s a Starbucks on Court Street by City Hall that is dog friendly.”

Max breathes a sigh of relief and scribbles the date, time, and location on the back of her hand. “Thursday, eight am, Starbucks on Court Street. Got it.” She smiles weakly. “Thank you, Sam.”

Sam notes the time and location in her day planner and closes it with a smart snap. “I will see you then, Max.”

The pastor nods. Sam heads off, leaving Max with a queasy stomach that she cannot tell the cause of.

-/-

Six o’clock comes early for Max the morning of her meeting with Sam. Anxiety of an unknown origin had kept her up late the night before—or at least, late for her. She is a morning creature by nature, so falling asleep at pushing one in the morning was most unusual for her. She had not slept well, and her alarm jolted her out of a dream slightly unpleasant but not unpleasant enough to remember coherently.

She shrugs on her favorite hoodie, a worn burgundy Boston College thing that is nearly a decade old (it replaced the first one she got in 1973), and shuffles to her small kitchen. She scoops homemade hot chocolate powder into her travel mug and runs the instant hot water tap until she can stir it to a decent consistency; her dogs get underfoot, excited for their morning walk. Max screws the lid on her travel mug, pops a caffeine pill, and plucks the dog leashes from the hook on the wall where she keeps them.

Fili, Kili, and Samwise borf excitedly as she clips them all in and takes them and her hot chocolate out for a walk. The crisp September morning helps bring her about into full consciousness, and by the time she returns home with the dogs the caffeine in the pill has kicked in. She is not entirely coherent, but she is coherent enough.

She takes a shower and gets dressed, then feeds the dogs. She nurses another travel mug of hot chocolate while she reads the newspaper to distract herself from the fact her stomach is in knots and the fact she has a headache from lack of sleep. She does not need this today.

“You guys ready to go?” she asks the dogs, finally, when she can no longer put off getting ready to leave. She harnesses her bulldogs up, clips on their leashes, and gets her wallet and vest.

The walk to the Starbucks by City Hall was decent enough. She is only a few minutes late. Max glances in the windows and sees Sam standing by the door; the pastor quickly tie her dogs to a bike rack within view of the windows and heads inside.

“Good morning,” the pastor greets. “Sorry I’m late.”

Sam checks her watch with a look of disbelief that Max is apologizing. “It’s five past the hour.”                                                    

Max makes some vague, noncommittal noises and reaches for her wallet, despite the fact she has already had two hot chocolates this morning. “Have you ordered already?”

“No, I was waiting for you.” Sam looks around. “Where are your dogs?”

“Outside,” Max replies, pointing out the window to where Fili, Kili, and Samwise are making hopeful eyes at strangers, tongues lolling happily.

“Bulldogs?”

“Yeah.” Max laughs a bit nervously. “They’re my babies.”

“I didn’t take you for the bulldog type. I thought you would show up with a golden retriever or a lab or some other white person animal.”

“Bulldogs are great. They’re total love bugs,” Max informs her, a tad bit defensively, as they step into the mercifully short line. “I’m never cold because I’ve always got a bulldog in my lap.”

Sam opens her mouth to respond but she is called up next to order. She orders a venti Mocha Cappuchino with a pump of caramel syrup. Max orders a venti hot chocolate and, after a second of hesitation, also asks for a pump of caramel syrup and three puppichinos.

Max, after years of having butch chivalry grilled into her, immediately reaches for her wallet when Sam goes to pay. The prosecutor gives her a fierce look and hands over her own credit card.

Max cringes and backs off to wait for the cashier to call her up. Idiot. What on earth had possessed her? This was a business meeting, not a date.

“Ma’am?” the cashier asks, and it’s clear she had zoned out. She hurries forward to pay, stammering an apology; what must Sam think of her?

She stuffs her debit card back in its slot in her wallet then drops a five in the tip bowl. Sam is off to the side, waiting for her drink; Max joins her and stuffs her hands in the pockets of her vest in order to keep from doing anything else stupid.

“Venti hot chocolate with caramel and three puppichinos for Max?” a barista calls a few moments later, and Max goes to collect them, carefully carrying the three cups of whipped cream in one hand and her drink in the other. She can tell Sam is judging her; why the hell did she order the puppichinos?

She is spared (or perhaps cursed) by Sam’s drink order being called a second later. As Sam goes to collect it, Max takes a sip of her hot chocolate; she nearly scalds her tongue. She recoils and curses her habit of compulsive drinking in awkward or anxious situations.

“Let’s go outside,” Sam says as she comes back, already headed for the door. The pastor scurries after her; for being a shorter woman, Sam sure could move. Even Max, with a good three or four inches on her, could barely keep up. The prosecutor walks right through the door and Max has to check it with her bony hip to swing it back open.

They walk over to where Sam has tied her dogs; all three bulldogs get excited and start milling and straining at the sight of the puppichinos.

“Hey, hey—” Max says, trying to reign them in. “Hey! Sit!”

Thankfully they sit. Max breathes a sigh of relief and looks over at Sam. “Um…could you…hold my drink for a sec?”

Sam takes it.

Max readjusts the cups of whipped cream in her hand and kneels in front of Fili. “Okay, Fili, sit…” He sits. Max offers him the cup and he slurps it up with a drolly bulldog tongue. “Good boy. Okay, Kili, your turn…”

After all bulldogs have gotten their whipped cream, Max stacks the cups and tosses them in a nearby trashcan. When she returns, Sam is looked very amused. As she hands Max her hot chocolate she asks, “You named your dogs after Lord of the Rings characters?”

“Um, yeah.”

“Cute.”

Max feels shame creep up the back up her neck. Suddenly she is so mortified she wants to die. Why is she such a nerd? She takes a sip of her drink to avoid responding.

“You know those hairless cats?” Sam asks. “I’d get one and name it Gollum.”

Max chokes in surprise and inhales scalding hot liquid. She coughs and thumps her chest, laughing, her eyes streaming. “Shit,” she gasps. “I’m okay, I’m okay…fuck. Oh man. You’re right. Those things do look like Gollum.”

Sam smiles for a second, a break in her fierce stud prosecutor armor. Then she checks her watch and sobers up. “We’ve got forty five minutes. Would you like to walk and talk? There are also benches by the hall.”

“I’m fine with either. Lemme get these guys undone first.” Max unties the dogs and collects their leashes in her hand, wrapping their leashes around her wrist to shorten them. All of them strain a bit towards Sam so the pastor asks, “Wanna let them say hi?”

Sam steps in closer so the three of them could snuffle and inspect her dress shoes and grey slacks. She even gives them each a neck scratch and a pat, much to Max’s delight. After a few seconds of milling, the dogs deem Sam acceptable.

 Max tugs on their leashes. “Heel up, guys.”

They do, and Sam straightens back up.

“They like to drift to the right,” Max tells her, “so you’re best walking on my left.”

Sam shifts obligingly. As they start walking into the plaza she asks, “What research have you done since we talked on Sunday?”

“Well—um—I had our outreach person—Monica, have you met her yet?—look into a few of the places you suggested. Definitely interested in looking at Out Now, and there was also…a homeless shelter? Little something?”

“Little Wanderers?”

Max ducks her head in acknowledgement. “Yes. Are they good?”

“Yes, although currently they do not work with LGBT kids only. However, they are trying to open an LBGT-specific shelter for LGBT youth, with a focus on kids of color.”

Max’s brain immediately starts churning on what the church could do to help. A fundraising campaign, a furniture or clothing drive…one of the members of the church has connections in real estate. And she knows the Dykes would chip in should she mention it; Connie would jump to help in a heartbeat. Perhaps it could be a co-sponsorship.

“We could work with that. We could definitely work with that.” 

**-/-**

Max sees Sam briefly on Sunday, but Sam has to leave almost immediately after service. All she has time to do is give Sam a brief update before the prosecutor has pulled out her umbrella and has headed off into the early fall drizzle.

Later that week Max feels restless, so she takes her dogs down to the river. The leaves are starting to turn, so it’s a beautiful walk. Max and the dogs take it slow; the dogs enjoys snuffling around on the path, and she enjoys watching the bikers whizz by. She turns them around at Storrow Lagoon and only a few minutes later does she see a familiar figure walking along the path towards her.

It’s Sam. But not like Max has ever seen her. Instead of her usual power suit, she’s wearing jeans and a big white hoodie. The hood is pulled up and over a baseball cap. Sam looks over from the water in that moment and makes eye contact with her.

Max pulls a hand out of her pocket and waves. The dogs whine and pull at their leashes a bit.

Sam looks surprised, but walks over. “You’re the last person I would expect to see here.”

Max’s eyebrows goes up. “Why do you say that?”

Sam leans over and pats Fili, who was inspecting her sneakers. “I definitely thought of you as an inside person.”

“You’re zero for two,” Max teases. “If I was an inside person, I’d have cats.”

Sam sighs in exasperation.

“What about you?” Max asks. “Don’t you prosecutor types spend long hours locked inside wood paneled offices? Shouldn’t you be pouring over some law book or another with single-minded intensity?”

Sam straightens up gives her a look, shoving her hands back into her hoodie pockets. “You know, lawyers are people, too.”

Max can feel she is starting to get comfortable with Sam because instead of shrinking back she fires off, “So are reverends.”

Sam sighs. “It’s been a day. I needed to clear my head.”

“Well, you picked a good place to do it. The Lord is showing off some of his best work today.”

“So He is.”

Max hesitates, then says, “If you need…someone to talk to…” She trails off, the offer hanging in the air between them.

“Thank you for your concern,” Sam says sincerely, “but I’m fine. There is just a case that is giving me trouble and I needed to step away for a bit.”

The pastor nods. Another pause. “Normally I would tell you to put yourself in His hands but…I have a feeling you’d rather have Him let you fight your way through the battle yourself then surrendering yourself to His guidance.”

“Who says this is not me surrendering myself to His guidance and will?” Sam counters, gesturing around at the nature surrounding them.

Max inclines her head. “Well then I pray that He gives you the guidance you seek, and the strength to push through your trials and tribulations.”

“…Thank you.”

Max smiles softly at her. “I’ll let you go. Will I see you Sunday?”

“Mmhmm,” Sam says, slightly distractedly, looking off over the water again.

The pastor’s anxiety flares up a bit at that, so she says quickly, “See you Sunday.”

Sam makes another distant, distracted noise. Max quickly tugs on the dogs’ leashes and guides them down from the path, away from the prosecutor. She only wishes she could leave her anxiety on the path with Sam instead of it hounding her as she walks back to her car.

-/-

Sam doesn’t come to church on Sunday. Max misses her face in the crowd and wonders what happened. Work keeping her in the office? Sickness keeping her at home? A car accident keeping her in the hospital? Her anxious, overbearing, awkward presence as head pastor keeping her away from the sanctuary?

The thoughts linger, unwanted and certainly uninvited, in the back of her mind all week. She hates it. Why does she care so much?

Thankfully, there is something to keep her distracted. The Dykes are having their final ride of the season and she has a board meeting with Jack, Connie, and Jacqueline, the club’s new Secretary, to plan the ride. Rebecca, who has become the club’s de facto Enforcer, attends as well, considering the meeting is being held in her house.

They cluster around the table in Rebecca and Connie’s kitchen dining room. Everyone is nursing coffee, except for Max and Connie. Nobody who drinks coffee declines it when Rebecca offers it; everyone knows she gets the good stuff straight from Italy.

Board meetings always put Max on edge. Jack, Connie, Jacqueline, and Rebecca are all stronger women than she could ever dream of being. Rebecca and Jacqueline are both badasses and Jack and Connie are, of course, butch perfection. And she’s…Max. She’s just Max.

She sits at the back end of the table with her legal pad of treasurer notes, leg bouncing up and down as they run through club business and the route and how much everything will cost. She scribbles down numbers when they come up, doing the math in the margins. They’ve got one more event after this, the Christmas charity event, but most of that is just labor and personal donations, not capital. They should be fine.

“Max!”

Her head snaps up. Rebecca looks angry. Shit, she must have zoned out. “Yeah?”

“Did you hear what I said about the motel?” Jack asks.

“Uh…no, sorry.”

Rebecca sighs. Max cringes.

“Connie called them and they have a new group rate. You’ll have to run with the new numbers.”

“Okay…” Max writes that down. “Higher or lower?”

“Higher.”

Great. “I’ll call them this week.”

A bit more talking, then they end the meeting. It’s Sunday, and Jack and Connie want to watch the game.

“You wanna stay, Jacqueline?” Jack asks. “I’m gonna go run out and grab some wings.”

Max notices they don’t ask her. Nobody ever asks her to come to anything, really, except when it’s Dykes events that she’s expected to show up to. She quickly finishes packing her messenger bag and goes to grab her things from the hall closet. She’s pulling on her coat when a hand on her shoulder makes her jump. She whips around; it’s just Connie.

“You alright?” the bigger butch asks. “You’re pretty spacy today. Everything okay?”

Of course it is Connie who notices something is wrong. Max swallows. “I’m fine. Just had a long day with service an’ all before this, and I gotta go home and walk the boys.”

Connie nods, apparently accepting the lie. That’s the one problem with Connie; if she’s given a logical excuse, she’ll take it at face value. “Ride safe back, yeah?”

“Mmhmm.”

Max pulls on her gloves and ear protection and heads for the door. It is only once she is safely out on her bike that she leans back and heaves a long sigh of relief. She’s survived.

-/-

The knock on her office doors surprises her. The dogs all look up from the couch in interest; she had come straight from the hospital, not thinking anybody would bother her on a Thursday evening. She hurries to pull her sweater straight then calls out,

“Come in! There are dogs in here.”

The door opens, and it’s Sam. She’s obviously just come from work; she’s still in her power suit. She looks exhausted.

Max stands in surprise.  “Sam!”

“Do you…have a moment?”

“Yeah, sure, of course.” The pastor comes out from behind her desk and gestures to the couch, which is currently populated by dogs. “Would you like to sit? I can move them.”

“No, it’s fine,” Sam replies, waving off her solicitousness. “I only came in to ask a question because I saw your car here.”

Sam knows what her car looks like? That’s encouraging. Wait, why is it encouraging? Focus, Max! “What can I do for you?”

“It’s been a long two weeks, and I probably shouldn’t be doing this while I’m still emotional but...would you like to get dinner some time next week?”

Max blinks. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I’m asking you on a date,” Sam clarifies, “which I probably shouldn’t be considering my father just died but—”

“Your father just died?” Max interrupts, shock belaying her sudden onset of anxiety.

“Yes. Last….last Saturday.”

That would explain why she did not attend service. Max impulsively reaches out to touch her shoulder. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Don’t say that, I’ve had enough of that the past few days,” the prosecutor says brusquely, shrugging off her hand.

Max pulls away. “Then let me know if there is anything I can do, or by extension the church. We’ll help in any way we can.”

“Go on a date with me,” Sam says.

The anxiety comes back full force. The pastor’s mouth opens, then closes. She hedges. “I don’t…think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

Because your dad just died. Because you will get tired of me as soon as your heart recovers. Because my hair is badly greying and I dye it to hide it. Because I’m not worth your time.

None of that comes out though. Instead, she blurts out, “Because I’m not who you think I am!”

Sam raises an eyebrow. Max instantly regrets it. Bad choice of words. Good job, Max, you idiot.

“Are you hiding something besides the rash of speeding tickets you got in your twenties? Because I already know about those.”

She wants to know how Sam knows about those, then remembers she’s a prosecutor. Right, of course, she looked her up. Still, Max flounders.

Sam pushes on. “So unless you’ve killed someone—”

“I haven’t killed anyone!” the pastor interrupts.

Sam crosses her arms over her chest. “Then why aren’t you what I think you are?”

Max can feel a breakdown coming on. The base of her neck aches and her stomach is queasy. Her heart is beating fast, and her hands are shaking and sweaty. She clenches one into a fist to try to hide it. She just wants to get out of this with her cover somewhat intact. “It’s…it’s complicated.”

“I’ve got time.”

“It’s not—all of this—” Max gestures around helplessly. “I’m not—I’m not butch, okay?”

Silence.

Max’s anxiety keeps her babbling. “I’m guessing you’re into butch but I’m not one, okay? It’s just…it’s a front I wear and I’ve always worn it but it’s too late now to go back but I’m too much of a coward to—” She stops. Takes a deep breath, tries to compose herself. “Reverend Kushing isn’t Max Kushing, okay? And Max Kushing isn’t the same as Just Max, either, so you shouldn’t—I can’t be Reverend Kushing every second of every day, so you shouldn’t waste your time, because I’m not her and I’ll never be her.”

A dark eyebrow rises. Clearly Sam is not impressed at her near-hysterics. “And what makes Reverend Kushing different from Just Max?”

Max drags a hand over her face. She isn’t getting it, she won’t let it go. “I’m a _therapy dog_ _owner_ , for Christ’s sake! I get paid to take my dogs to hospitals and play with kids. I’m not strong or in charge or—anything. I’m not anything.”

Sam steps closer to her. “I didn’t start wanting to date you until after I found out your dogs were therapy dogs.”

“I—what?”

“I don’t need butch nonsense in my life,” Sam says firmly. “I can hold myself up. But I do want a partner who is selfless, who cares about her community, and who isn’t afraid to realize when she is wrong and educate herself on how to be right. And above all else…you’re a woman who isn’t afraid to ask for help. And I like that, all of that, which is why I’m asking you on a date right now even if my life has gone to shit otherwise.”

Max chews on her lip, then asks quietly, “But what if I’m not a woman?”

Sam pauses for a second, looking her up and down. “Then it’s a good thing I’m bisexual.”

The pastor sputters. “Do you have a comeback for _everything_?”

“Yes. Now will you go on a date with me or not?”

“It sounds like I don’t have a choice.”

“Self-deprecation is not a reason to not accept a date.” She pauses. “Neither is closeted transgendered gender identity.”

“I’m not—I’m not transgender,” Max says quickly. “At least…I don’t want to be a man.” She pauses. “The kids, they call it…genderqueer. You know. Not…really being one or the other.”

“And is that how you feel?” Sam asks.

Max nods.

The attorney softens a bit. “Am I the first person you’ve told?”

“Besides these guys,” Max says, attempting humor by gesturing at her dogs, all three of whom are still watching from the couch.

“Thank you for telling me.”

The pastor nods, not trusting her voice.

“One date?” Sam asks.

“Okay,” Max finds herself saying.

“Are you busy next Thursday?”

“After seven.”

Sam pulls her planner from her purse and flips to the right page. “Seven thirty?”

Max nods. “That’s fine. Did you…have a place in mind?”

“I was hoping you might suggest someplace.”

“Oh…well.” The pastor fusses with the cuff of her sweater as she thinks. “There’s a good Pho place on Massachusetts Avenue. And a good Ethiopian place.”

“I’ve never had Pho before.”

Max smiles. “Well I guess this is as good an opportunity as ever?”

Sam nods and closes her planner. “Shall we talk details on Sunday?”

“Okay.”

And just like that, Max has a date.

Oh, shit. She has a date.


	2. Part 2

Max has not had a date in many, many years. At some point she had given up, because all of the women she had dated were expecting a hot, spitfire of a butch and discovered fairly quickly that she was A) actually Christian and not just playing B) preferred bottoming to topping and C) thought that a good time was to curl up with a book and her dogs after a long day. Some women had thought she was sweet, and those women had lasted a little bit longer—but soon enough even they grew disinterested.

Or Max had pushed them away before they had gotten too close. Whichever came first.

But now, here she is, fifty years old, feeling like she was eighteen again because there was a woman who was interested in her for all the reasons that she was usually dropped. Max couldn’t quite believe it, and neither could her anxiety. It was unhelpfully running her through all of the worst outcomes of the date with Sam, and was still doing so as she straddled her Harley in a metered parking spot in front of the Pho restaurant, killing time so that she didn’t have to get off and start to run the meter.

She always takes her Harley to dates, but she feels wrong about taking it to this one. Does she need to show off her butch masculinity when the woman she is meeting even butcher as her? Regardless, she rode it there, and she fusses with her hair in one of the side mirrors. She had actually taken the time to do her hair, slicking back the sides and spiking up the top. She had taken the time to do a lot, actually—she was wearing her tightest pants, best sweater, and nicest pair of wingtip shoes. She had thought about wearing a tie and clip but decided against it at the last second. That would definitely be trying too hard.

Maybe she was trying too hard anyway.

“Well don’t you look good enough to eat?”

She turns and there is Sam, dressed in slacks and a pastel colored shirt. Somehow even in pink Sam managed to be ten times butcher than the time Max saw her in her power suit. The pastor’s mouth goes dry and suddenly she can’t speak, although if it’s the anxiety or the way Sam is looking her up and down appreciatively, she couldn’t say.

(Both. It’s probably both.)

“I didn’t know you rode a motorcycle. I thought you just toured around in that little gold Corolla of yours.”

Max laughs nervously and dismounts from her bike. “Yeah, I do. Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” Sam raises an eyebrow. “Just on hot dates?”

Max locks her bike up and feeds the meter, then deflects the question. “Reflexes aren’t what they used to be.”

Sam takes another look at the Sportster now that Max is no longer sitting on it. “Is this what you got all those speeding tickets on?”

The pastor grimaces, which tells Sam all that she needs to know. Max stuffs her wallet back into her pocket. “You hungry?”

“I could eat.”

“Good, me too.” Max instinctively goes to get the door, because butch chivalry is really fucking hard to get rid of once it has been drilled into your bones. Thankfully, Sam smiles at her instead of being annoyed.

“Thank you.”

Max half smiles and shoves a hand into her back pocket, letting the door close behind her. “Where do you wanna sit? We can sit anywhere.”

“Let’s sit by the wall.”

They do. Max picks the seat facing the door, because it is easier for her anxiety.

The teenaged waiter who comes with their menus is one Max recognizes; she smiles at him and he greets her warmly. “Welcome back! 24 with extra pork?”

“Please,” Max said, then pauses and looks over at Sam anxiously. “My friend will still need a menu, though.”

“Of course.” He hands Sam a menu then disappears back towards the counter.

“Are you a regular here?” Sam asks, her voice tinged with amusement.

Max flushes and shrugs, embarrassed.

Sam raises an eyebrow then looks down at the menu. “What do you recommend?”

The reverend hedges. “Well…do you eat meat?”

“I don’t.”

“Well…that rules out most of the menu. But um…Can I see it?” Max asks anxiously. Sam tilts it so she could see it and after a cursory glance, Max taps the bottom five dishes. “These here are all the vegetarian options. For the Pho at least. The all mushroom one is good. Do you like spice?”

Sam smiles almost mischievously; the pastor’s heart flutters momentarily at the sight. “I love spice.”

“I…um…well. Okay. Then I’d recommend the spicy tofu one.” Max points at the last dish on the menu. “It’s good. You can ask them to add mushrooms, too, if you want.”

The prosecutor turns the menu back to her and looks properly at it to read the description. “It looks good. Anything else?”

“The tofu and mushroom steamed buns might be up your alley. There’s a veggie curry, too, but I haven’t had it.”

“Why not?”

Max fusses with her hands and looked away, embarrassed again. Why did she suggest this place? “I just…like the Pho best.”

“Hmm.” Sam looks around at the other patrons, then back at the menu. “I will go with your expert advice, then, and have the spicy tofu Pho.”

Max nods and watches as Sam hails the waiter to place her order. The waiter returns to their table with two glasses of water, which Max immediately takes a hold of and uses to occupy her anxious hands.

“So I’ve always wondered,” Sam begins after the waiter has taken her order and disappeared with the menu, “how does one become a reverend?”

Max’s lips twitch up softly. “In my case?”

“Sure.”

“Well…one goes to Boston College to get away from ones parents, starts to acquire degrees in English and Accounting, finds the Lord halfway through your college education, and proceed to stay in Boston to go to seminary school.” A pause. “Then one goes back to Baltimore to take care of one’s parents and writes one’s ordination paper…and gets officially ordained and starts doing guest sermons at the gay church in Mt. Vernon.” Another pause. “Sorry, that was a lot.”

Sam frowns softly. “Baltimore?”

Max dips her head in acknowledgement.

“You’re from Maryland?”

The pastor hesitates, then nods.

“Does that mean you’re a Ravens fan?” Sam asks teasingly, “Because that might mean we’ll have to end this before we begin.”

The reverend grimaces and twirls her water cup in her hands, getting the condensation all over her palms. “I’m not…really a football person.”

“No?”

Max shakes her head.

The prosecutor grins and leans forward conspiratorially. “Good, cuz I hate Ravens fans.”

Max smiles meekly. “Are the O’s okay?”

“The O’s?”

“The Orioles.” The pastor pauses, then clarifies, “The Baltimore baseball team.”

“You like baseball?”

“I listen to the games…” Max checks her watch. “In fact, the O’s play the Rays tonight and I’m missing it.”

Sam rolls her eyes. “Well how kind of you to miss your baseball game to go on a date with me.”

“I—I didn’t mean it like that!” Max stammers, her anxiety immediately skyrocketing. Shit, shit, shit.

“I know, I’m teasing,” Sam replies gently. “Anyway, I think it’s funny. Orioles, Ravens…you Baltimorian’s have got a thing for birds.”

“The Baltimore oriole is the state bird of Maryland, and Edgar Allen Poe is from Baltimore,” Max says defensively, “it makes perfect sense when you think about it.”

The prosecutor scoffs softly. “I guess it’s not any worse than the Cheiftans.”

Max tilts her head to the side. “Chieftains?”

“Seattle U’s mascot. Or it was. They just changed it to the Redhawks because…well, it was the Chieftains. Kind of culturally insensitive.”

Max takes a hasty sip of water so she does not have to admit she does not know exactly what makes it culturally insensitive. She decides to try to change the subject. “So…what brought you out to Boston, then?”

“Harvard,” Sam says, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. And Max supposed it is, and that she’s just an idiot. Of course Sam was in Boston because she went to Harvard for law school. Sam keeps talking. “After law school I got hired at a firm, and pretty soon after that I met a guy and we got married. That was a mistake.”

“It was?” Max asks, confused. She thought Sam was bisexual.

“Not because he was a guy, just because of what kind of person he was,” Sam clarifies. “Hyper-masculine, bad with money, bit of an ego. Not great.”

Max grimaces.

“I was young and in love,” the prosecutor tells her. “I didn’t know what signs to look out for until it was too late. Bad combination.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” the pastor says hastily. She’s gripping her water glass again like a lifeline. “How…how long were you married?”

“Five years.”

“And you stayed here after you got divorced?”

“Mmhmm.” Sam plays with the straw in her water glass, which she seems much better at not taking anxiety sips out of like Max has been doing. Probably because she isn’t an anxious mess like Max is. “I had a good job and I didn’t want to pick up everything and move back across the country again. So I’ve been here ever since.”

Max bobs her head.

“What about you?” Sam asks. “You said you moved to Baltimore after seminary school? Why’d you come back to Boston?”

“I had a friend who wanted to start up a gay church and called me because he knew I was ordained,” the pastor replies, then adds, “I’d also fallen out with my parents and didn’t think I had anything to lose so…I came back.”

“You fell out with your parents?”

Max laughs nervously. “Yeah they didn’t…take me coming out well. It took me leaving for Boston for them to come around.”

“Are they still alive?”

Max nods. “Still alive and kicking down in Baltimore. I go and visit them a few times a year. My sister and her kids live with them now so I don’t worry about them too much.”

Sam sighs. “That’s nice. You already know about my father. And my mother died five years ago.”

The pastor dips her head in respect, but knows better than to say she is sorry for her loss.

“…And on that note,” Sam says in a tone that was just slightly too cheery, “it looks like our food is coming.”

Max turns around and saw the waiter coming with their bowls on a tray. Then her eyes go comically wide. “Have you ever used chopsticks?”

“Yes,” Sam says with some amusement, “I have.”

Max breathes out shakily. Crisis averted.

“Number 28,” the waiter says, putting the bowl down in front of Sam, “and number 24 with extra pork.”

“Thank you,” Max says sincerely, waiting for the waiter to put down the plate with beansprouts and mint before reaching for a pair of chopsticks, a spoon, and the oyster sauce with practiced ease.

Sam reaches for a pair of chopsticks as well, obviously watching Max to take her cues from her. It makes Max feel both uncomfortable and powerful at the same time.

“If you want it hotter, the red stuff in the bottle there will make it spicier,” Max says nodding her head at the bottle in question as she squirts oyster sauce into her Pho and mixes it in with her chopsticks.

Sam nods and reaches for a spoon, then tries the broth. “I think it’s spicy enough. What have you got there?”

“Oyster sauce. It’s more of a savory taste. But it’s made from boiled oysters so it’s not vegetarian.”

“Let me try?”

Max passes over the bottle.

Sam puts a bit on her fingertip and tastes it. “I wish I didn’t like it. Why did you tell me what it was made of? If you hadn’t told me it was made from boiling oysters, I could have claimed plausible deniability.”

The pastor smiles at the joke. Sam puts the sauce off to the side. Max reaches for some of the beansprouts and works them into the bowl with her chopsticks, then starts eating. She spends the entire time they eat hyperaware about how fast she is eating and does her best to slow it down.

Despite this, she still finishes before Sam. So she adds more bean sprouts and fishes for them while the prosecutor finishes up.

“Max?”

The pastor looks up. Sam has finished her bowl. She swallows nervously. “Yeah?”

“This was a very good suggestion. Thank you.”

Max’s anxiety ebbs for a moment and she smiles softly. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“I think you should be in charge of suggesting all of our date night locations from here on in.”

Max’s heart thuds traitorously in her chest. “You…want to go on a second one?”

Sam nods. “I don’t see why not. Unless you’ve absolutely hated it.”

“N-no, not at all!” the pastor stammers. “I just didn’t expect…” She trails off, gesturing uselessly.

Sam looks at her long and hard, and Max gets the terrifying feeling that Sam knows exactly what her anxiety has been telling her since Sam asked her out in the first place. Sam doesn’t say anything, though, just reaches into her back pocket and pulls out her wallet.

“I’ll pay.”

Max swallows. She feels like she’s fucked something up. “Are-are you sure?”

The prosecutor nods. “Do I pay here or at the counter?”

“Counter,” Max says faintly, unused to being on the other end of a payment offer.

“You don’t want dessert or anything like that?”

Max shakes her head.

“Okay, I’ll be right back.” Sam gets up and heads to the counter.

Max twists to watch her go, then nervously fusses with her chopsticks. She’s certain she’s fucked up. When Sam comes back she stands up, eager to get outside. She does not want to be dumped in a quiet restaurant.

“Ready to go?” Sam asks. Max is too wrapped up in her own anxiety to notice the disappointed edge to her voice.

They go outside and stand in front of her motorcycle. Sam lingers. Max shoves her hands in her pockets and tries not to panic. She needs confirmation, but she’s too chicken to ask it outright.

“So, uh…” She starts, then stops. Tries again in a different way. “Will I…um…see you again?”

Sam frowns. “Yes?”

Of course she’ll see her again. She’ll see her at church. Max clears her throat awkwardly. “…Not just…on Sundays?”

Sam tilts her head like she is trying to figure out what she is getting at. “Are you…asking about the second date?”

Max nods.

“Of course. I said I wanted to go on another one. I enjoyed this.”

The pastor blinks. She did?

“…I said so.”

Oh shit, she said that out loud.

Nervous hesitation from Sam. “Did you…not?”

“No, I did, I just—” Max hedges, sighs, runs her hand through her hair. “I’m bad at…” She gestures between them helplessly.

“Dating?” Sam asks, an eyebrow raised.

Max deflates a bit. “Yes.”

Sam pauses for a second. “What’s the time on your meter?”

Max glances at it. “…Ten minutes.”

“Walk with me?”

“O-Okay.”

They start walking down the street towards the Christian Science Plaza. It’s quiet for a few minutes as they walk; Max’s anxiety returns with a vengeance and she tries to focus on keeping her long stride short so she doesn’t outpace Sam. She shoves her hands in her pockets and counts the bricks in the sidewalk.

“Why are you bad at dating?” Sam asks finally.

“I’m just…” Max takes her hands out of her pockets and cracks her knuckles nervously. “I’m not what most people think.”

“Not butch?”

“Yeah.” A pause. “Not…people don’t stay.”

“Well I happen to appreciate your non-butchness. I’ve said this before.” Sam stops and turns to her. “I like you, Max. I think you’re cute.”

It doesn’t sound like an insult coming from her, but the word ‘cute’ still gets Max’s heart pounding. Being ‘cute’ instead of handsome or butch is what gets her dumped in the first place. She stuffs her hands in her pockets again and stares at the ground, not meeting Sam’s gaze.

“I have time on Sundays now,” Sam says, plowing through her anxiety fog, “would you like to get lunch after service?”

“Okay,” Max says softly.

“You don’t sound thrilled.”

The pastor exhales shakily. “I’m just…nervous about all this.” She gestures helplessly again. “Anxious.”

“Why? Sam asks softly. “What are you anxious of?”

“I’m…” Max swallows past the sudden constriction of her throat. Is she going to cry? No, she absolutely cannot cry. “I’m tired of people leaving.”

Sam’s face contorts painfully. “Max…”

“No, don’t,” Max says quickly. “I don’t want you to date me because you feel sorry for me, either.” She pauses and sighs, long and hard. “I’m too old for that now.”

The other woman is quiet.

Max scuffs her toe against the ground despite the risk it runs of ruining her nice shoes.

“You either like me for me or you don’t,” she says softly, although it sounds mostly like she is trying to convince herself.

”Max—” Sam stops, hesitates, is quiet.

Max bites her lip and looks at the ground again. “It’s that simple.”

“Max, I do like you,” the prosecutor finally says. “The person I saw tonight is the same person I know that loves God and is the same person I’ve talked to about owning up her mistakes and supporting queer youth of color.” She pauses. “And then tonight you showed me you’re thoughtful to other people. You’re kind to those not as fortunate as you. You’re someone who genuinely cares, and that’s definitely someone I want to get to know more.”

“Sam, I—” She glances away, nervously, for something to distract her from the fact she is definitely going to cry now, and then notices the time on her watch. “Shit, I’m gonna get a ticket.”

Sam sighs. “Okay. Just know…all of that, okay?”

Max nods, craning her neck to check her bike. No traffic cops yet, but she knows in downtown Boston they are thick and will sneak up and tag you when one least expects it.

“I’ll see you on Sunday?” the prosecutor prompts.

“I’ll see you Sunday,” Max replies distractedly, then smiles hesitantly at her then dashes off for her bike. She find it, thankfully without a ticket, just where she left it. She sits on it for some time, feeling like she is missing something. Like she is forgetting something. But she can’t think of what.

The ride back to her apartment is uneventful, but that feeling nags her all the way home. She can’t help but play the entire encounter over and over again in her head. Especially the end, and how awkward it was. She picks apart the entire thing, every line and action between her and Sam until she is sick to her stomach with anxiety. Why the fuck is she like this? Why why why why WHY?

She goes home and takes the dogs out. Walking the dogs normally calms her down, but tonight it just makes her feel worse. She is alone with her thoughts, just like she was when she was on the bike, and that does not help with the crazy swirl of emotions that is her entire being right now.

When she gets back with the dogs she goes straight to bed. She does not normally feel alone when she is at her apartment, but suddenly, her tiny apartment stuffed full of books is empty. Her bed, even when it is full of dogs, feels large and cold. The only thing that is full is her brain, which apparently only seems to exist to tell her how much she’s fucked up over her fifty years, her position in the church notwithstanding.

She is so wrapped up in it all that she forgets to pray. Her brain doesn’t shut up, so she eventually she gets up and puts up her record player to try to drone out the anxiety. As she curls up under her comforter, listening to the music, she tries not to become aware of how acutely lonely she actually is.

(It doesn’t work. It never really works.)

-/-

She spends the next three days worrying about it. Because of course she does. That’s her entire fucking goddamn life.

She can’t help but think it’s all a sham, that Sam just feels sorry for her, or just wants to get close to expose something she is doing wrong. She feels sick. For the first time in many, many years she thinks about not going to church on Sunday.

She can’t face Sam.

But she’s the fucking Reverend. She has to go.

So she goes. She forces herself to. She is not preaching, so she wears normal clothes and she waits until just before their guest speaks to slip into a pew in the back. Sam is five rows ahead of her; Max watches her glance around for her for a few moments at the beginning, but Max sits behind her where she can’t see.

She doesn’t take in a word of the sermon. She spends the entire thing thinking about Sam, and how guilty she feels for sitting where Sam can’t see her.

She thinks about the date. How much she initially enjoyed it, three-day anxious episode afterwards notwithstanding. How she enjoyed talking with Sam and learning more about her. She wonders about what Sam thinks of Boston and if she shares the same views as her. They are both outsiders there, from two very different locations on the map. They didn’t get to talk about it on their first date. It would be a good topic of conversation for the second.

She thinks about how she was not interested in anything in Sam until she asked. So why is she thinking about second dates at all? Is she actually interested in Sam because some part of her actually likes her, or just interested because Sam is the first person to show true interest in the past however many years?

“Reverend Kushing!”

She’s so wrapped up in her own thought that she doesn’t notice when the sermon ends. She tunes back in to reality to find a parishioner, a regular, wishing to speak with her. She sees Sam turn her head at the sound of her name. They make eye contact; Max panics slightly.

“I’m sorry, Deana—” she shutters, looking for a way out. “I have to—I have business, would you mind—?”

The parishioner looks concerned but lets her go.

Max makes a break for the narthax. She’s having a crisis and she can’t see Sam right now when she’s like this. She cuts through one of the side doors and goes to her office, closes the door, and sits on her couch with her head in her hands.

She has to get it together. What the fuck is wrong with her?

“Max?”

She freezes and looks up. Sam is standing in the doorway; she didn’t lock the door. The other woman looks concerned. 

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Max says shortly, snappily. She instantly regrets it.

Sam comes in and closes the door. “Are you hiding from everyone out there?”

“No.”

A pause. “Are you hiding from me?”

“I—” The words die in her throat and she flexes her hands anxiously. “What makes you think that?”

“We’re supposed to get lunch, remember?”

Fuck. She’s been so wrapped up on why Sam is interested (or not interested) in her and then about avoiding Sam that she forgot they were actually supposed to go out for their second date after the service.

“I-I-I—” She buries her face in her hand. “I can’t, Sam. Not today.”

Sam comes closer and Max feels the couch depress as she sits down next to her. Her anxiety, already astronomical, rises even further. “Why not?”

“Because I’m a fucking wreak!” the pastor blurts out, throwing her hands up in disgust. “Because this entire thing makes me anxious and you’re probably way too good for me anyway and are going to leave me once you realize that, so what’s the fucking point?!” She doesn’t let Sam interject, just keeps going in a rambling rant of anxiousness. “There isn’t one, that’s what. There isn’t a point, but I want there to be so desperately and my brain won’t shut up about it and I’m so tired of it, Sam, I’m really fucking tired of it. So I just can’t, okay? Not today.”

Sam’s eyebrows rise up. She’s quiet for a long time. Max tries to swallow past the lump in her throat but finds she can’t. A tear streaks down her cheek and she hides her eyes in the crook of her hand. Of course it’s come to this, her crying in front of Sam. Of course it has.

“Do you see a therapist?” the prosecutor asks quite bluntly.

Max is startled enough by the question that she drops her hand and looks over at her. “No?”

“You should.” Sam says firmly. “You’re falling apart. I don’t need a psych degree to see that.”

“I don’t need—”

“It isn’t weak to get help.” The other woman reached into her back pocket and pulls out her wallet, and digs in it until she finds a card. She hands it to Max. “Here. This shrink works on a sliding pay scale for those who can’t normally afford to see someone. Make an appointment.”

Max sniffles and takes the card, turns it over in her hands without saying anything. Sam waits, then when Max doesn’t say anything, she prompts, “You’ve got nothing left to lose.”

“I’ve got you,” Max says hoarsely.

The prosecutor hesitates, then points at the card. “Call her. Let me know when you do, okay?”

Max swallows then, after a moment, nods.

Sam’s firm expression softens and her hand finds the pastor’s knee. “It’ll be okay, Max. I promise.”


	3. Part 3

They don’t go on their second date for understandable reasons. A tacit understanding forms that neither of them are going to make another move until Max gets professional help. It takes Max two weeks, but she finally bucks up the courage and calls.

“I made an appointment,” she tells Sam quietly after service, when the crowd has died down and Sam has come to find her.

“You did?”

The pastor ducks her head. “It’s in December but…”

“You made it,” Sam says, warmly, and smiles at her. “That’s a big step.”

Max’s heart flutters; she’s had a lot of time for introspection recently, and she’s decided she really likes Sam’s smile. “Yeah…”

“Let me know how it goes.”

“I will,” Max says, and she means it.

.

.

.

Waiting for the appointment makes her antsy. She goes to the library and checks out every self-help book she can find, even though she’s terribly anxious about it when the librarian checks them all out. She reads them curled up in her easy chair at her apartment, in her office at the church, in the car at the hospital when she gets there a little bit early.

The books tell her to identify her triggers and tell to try deep breathing or meditation to alleviate her anxiety. Those don’t really help. The books also tell her to keep something to fidget with to help her channel her anxious energy. She goes down to Glad Day and, along with her usual purchase of books, she buys three magnetic rocks from the bowl of them on the counter. She learns to keep the eraser-sized bits of rock in her pocket at all times, and finds they provide some comfort.

She tells Sam all of this when Sam checks in on her the next Sunday. They go into her office for some privacy after her sermon, once she finishes speaking to everyone who wants to talk to her after.

“Are they helping?” she asks, when Max is done speaking. She nods at the magnets Max has been moving absently around in her palm since she started talking. “Or are they just helping you cope?”

“I—” Max hesitates. “It’s…The larger stuff, no. But other stuff. Yeah.”

“I’m glad.”

The pastor smiles weakly and clenches her hand in a fist around the magnets. “I’m just hoping the therapy helps.”

Sam frowns. “You think it won’t?”

“I don’t know,” Max replies honestly. “But if it does…I don’t know how I’m going to afford it, but if it works I’ll drain my savings if I have to.”

The prosecutor is quiet for a long stretch of time. “I’m assuming you don’t have insurance?”

“Most pastors don’t.”

“The therapist I referred you to still has low income options,” Sam told her. “That’s why I gave you her card in the first place.”

“I know but—” Max pauses, takes a breath, starts to fiddle with the magnets again. “It’s still going to be a good chunk of money, especially over a long period of time, and if I need medication, that’s even more money and—”

“Max,” Sam says sternly, overriding her anxious rambling before it can even really begin. She takes her hand, the one with the magnets, in both of hers. The touch distracts Max mid-ramble and she falls quiet. “Let’s talk this out. How much is a session going to cost you?”

“Um…thirty dollars. On her scale, she said.”

“Once a week?”

Max nods.

“So that’s the price of a tank and a half of gas, or going out to dinner at a decent restaurant. Or…” Sam pauses and fishes for a different thing that Max might relate to more.

“Fifteen used paperbacks?” the pastor offers up uncertainly.

Sam looks over and her and smiles softly. “Fifteen used paperbacks. Now, the question is, can you afford fifteen used paperbacks a week?”

 “Theoretically?” Max asks. Sam nods. “Yes…but—”

“No buts,” the prosecutor says. “You can afford it. It doesn’t matter what it costs in the long term. Now the question is…are the good things that therapy will hopefully bring, like clarity and coping mechanisms and progress, worth fifteen used paperbacks a week?”

The pastor does not even have to pause. “Yes.”

Sam smiles. “Good.” She squeezes Max’s hand in hers, then let’s go of it. “Does that help?”

“Sort of.” Max went back to rolling her magnets around in her palm again. Sam waits for Max to elaborate, and after a few minutes she finally does. “…But what if it doesn’t work? …What if I need medication?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” the prosecutor tells her. “If your challenges can be handled with just therapy, that’s our main goal. If not, we’ll figure it out, okay?”

“Okay.”

-/-

“Max!”

The pastor turns to see Connie coming towards her. They are in a diner parking lot after the Dyke’s final ride of the season. She survived the weekend getaway with her butch identity intact, and it has resulted in her being out on her bike on a beautiful November afternoon.

The whole club is about to depart from their final stop and head off on their respective ways home when Connie had called out her name. She pauses from where she is putting on her gloves and tries to stand up a little straighter, make her shoulders a little broader.

“What’s up, Wills?”

“Are you heading down South for Thanksgiving?” the other butch asks when she draws closer. “Becca and I got invited down to my brother’s and were gonna take the bike if it’s gonna be nice.”

Thanksgiving. She had been so wrapped up in her anxiety about her upcoming therapy sessions that time had slipped by her. She realizes the holiday is two weeks away.

“—wondering if you wanted a drive buddy, if you’re going down? You usually do, right?”

“I—yeah,” Max says, and wonders why her baby sister has not called her to arrange something. Fuck. Has she pissed her off again? “Um. I actually don’t know right now but I can get back to you?”

Connie nods. “Sure.”

“I don’t normally take my bike down,” Max adds hastily.

“I know, but we thought you might still like the company, yeah?”

The pastor nods. “Yeah.”

“Are you coming to Friendsgiving next week?”

Like she has a choice. “Yeah, definitely. I’ll even bring your favorite.” She winks at Connie, then regrets it.

“Good deal. See you Saturday.” A pause. “Ride back safe.”

“Kiss Becca bye for me,” Max teases, because her anxiety has ramped up and she can’t help herself.

The bigger butch rolls her eyes and tosses Max a casual wave as she ambles back towards her bike. Max lets out a sigh and finishes pulling on her gloves, then straddles her bike, suddenly antsy to go.

She looks over at the front, where Jack and Connie have parked their bikes, and she catches Rebecca’s eyes as they flash towards her with a scowl. Connie must have told her what she said. Max doesn’t have it in her to wink back at Rebecca like she normally would.

She’s starting to figure out what her triggers are, and clearly pretending to be butch is one of them. She’s been on edge all weekend and now that they are about to go home, and she’ll be free of the stressor, her anxiety is close to the surface. She reaches into her pocket, then remembers for the millionth time that weekend that she doesn’t have the worry stones in her pocket. She had left them at home because she had been worried what the butches would have thought if they had seen her fiddling with them.

She takes a deep breath and tries to think about what would Sam say to help her work through the anxiety attack?

…Sam. Whose father just died. Who might not have someone to spend Thanksgiving with.

The thought arrests her anxiety attack mid-build, and occupies her for long enough that they get underway with her cover still intact. She thinks about it the entire way back to her apartment and when she gets home, the first thing she does after greeting her dogs is pick up the phone and call Sam.

She answers on the third ring. _“Fitzgerald residence.”_

“Sam, hi, it’s uh. It’s Max.”

 _“Max!”_ Sam sounds surprised. _“Are you alright?”_

“Yeah, I’m fine, I just…” The pastor pauses, unsure how to phrase it. “Do you…do you have someone to spend Thanksgiving with?”

A pause. _“Yes?”_

“Oh.” Shame creeps up the back of her neck. “Okay, nevermind.”

_“Do you?”_

“Uh. Yeah. I should.” Max twirls the phone cord around her finger. “Thanks for asking.”

Another pause. _“How was the ride? I missed you at church today.”_

She missed her! Max’s stomach flip flops a little bit. “It was okay but…the group definitely is triggering my anxiety.”

 _“Not feeling butch enough?”_ Sam asks, her tone sympathetic.

“Yeah…”

 _“Maybe that’s something you can work on with the therapist,”_ the prosecutor suggests. _“How to approach and confront those feelings.”_

“Maybe it is.” Max pauses, unable to think of anything else to say. “Anyway, uh, I just called to…ask you that…so, I’m…gonna hang up now?”

 _“Alright,”_ Sam says, then quickly adds, _“I appreciate it, Max. Thank you for calling.”_

“You’re welcome. G’night.”

“G’night.”

-/-

Max goes down to Baltimore for Thanksgiving, but does not ride with Rebecca and Connie. She enjoys spending time with her family more than she imagined she would; her parents are actually tolerable, and her sister asks after her church with more than just a passing interest. As usual, her niece and nephew adore the visit from Auntie Maxine. (It’s probably less because she brings the dogs and more the fact she has candy in her pocket for them should they ask. She is not above a little bribery.)

When she gets back, it’s a whirlwind of a week preparing things for the Dykes Christmas fundraiser, and then she has her appointment in the first week of December.

After all the buildup she finds the appointment a disappointing. Ria is a nice woman, but the appointment is less helping and more getting to know each. Max should have expected that but she really just wanted to get to the helping. She is tired of living like this.

Despite the lackluster appointment, she makes another one for the next Friday, and Ria leaves her with some homework.

“Next week I want you to come tell me who you are and what makes up your identity,” the therapist tells her as they wrap up. “Focus specifically on why those things make up your identity. Also, if you could, think about what you want to be, and what you want these therapy sessions to result in. We’ll talk about both lists next time.”

It’s a bit confusing, she thinks, and she is not exactly sure how it will help, but when she gets home she gets out a notebook and her nice fountain pen and sits in her chair to think about it. Kili crawls into her lap and she scratches his neck absently.

 _Lesbian_ , she lists, and then quickly after it, _Christian._

The next term comes more slowly. It takes her some time but she finally scratches out _Androgynous_ out on the paper and then _Genderqueer / Nonbinary_ follows next; after a moment of considering she adds a question mark next to it.

The phone rings. She swivels the chair to pick up the receiver and tucks it in under her ear. “Max Kushing speaking.”

_“Hey, it’s Sam. Are you back from therapy?”_

Max pauses in surprise. Did Sam really call her to check in about therapy? She thought she was just going to tell her how it went on Sunday. “Yeah. I am.”

_“Did it go well?”_

“It went okay?” the pastor replies, capping her pen and tucking it into her journal. “I told her about why I wanted therapy and then I just told her about…everything, I guess. And she listened and asked a couple of questions and then sent me home with some homework.”

Sam laughs from the other end of the line _. “That sounds like Ria. How are you doing?”_

“Okay,” Max says, and she means it. “I’m not…anxious about it? She was really nonjudgmental and listened and that was nice.”

 _“I’m glad,”_ Sam replies sincerely. _“Are you preaching on Sunday?”_

Max thinks about the sermon she has been working on, the notes of which are scribbled in the notebook she had been writing out her therapy homework in. “Uh huh.”

_“I’m excited. I’ll see you then?”_

“Sure…” Max hesitates, then says, “Thanks for calling, Sam.”

_“You’re welcome, Max. Good luck with Ria’s homework.”_

-/-

“That was a good sermon.”

Max ducks her head in embarrassment as Sam catches her on her way back to her office after the service. “Thanks, but I’m not really happy with it.”

“Why not?” Sam asks, falling into step besides the pastor.

“Distracted.” Max fishes in her pocket for the key to her office and fumbles with it and her notes when she goes to unlock the door.

Sam immediately reaches out. “I can hold them.”

“No, I’ve got it.”

“Max,” Sam said gently, drawing her attention over. “It’s fine, really. I can hold them.”

The pastor hesitates for a second, then hands the sheaf of paper over. Sam smiles and takes them. Max laughs nervously, then opens the door and goes in. Sam follows after her and sets the papers on Max’s desk.

“What’s distracting you, Max?”

The pastor reaches into her desk drawer and pulls out her fiddle stones, which she immediately starts fussing with. “Ria’s homework.”

“Ah.” Sam waits for Max to clarify without prodding.

Eventually, Max does. “It’s just…I’m having a hard time with it.”

“It isn’t supposed to be easy.”

“I know,” Max replies with a huff, and reaches down to scoop her notebook up from her desk. “I just thought…I dunno.” She flips the notebook to the right page then thrusts it in Sam’s direction. “Look.”

Sam takes it and reads.

_Personal Identifiers (What I am?):_

  * _Lesbian_
  * _Christian_
  * _Androgynous_
  * _Genderqueer / Nonbinary (?)_



_What I Want To Be:_

  * _~~Butch~~_
  * _Strong_
  * _Useful_



 

“What am I looking at?” Sam asks when she finally looks up from Max’s painfully neat handwriting.

 “My homework for Ria.”

“Which was?”

“To think about who I am and what makes up my identity…” Max pauses. “And to say what I want to be.”

The prosecutor hums softly. “I think you’re missing a few things, but if you don’t think they are personal identifiers than they wouldn’t be personal identifiers, right?”

Max tilts her head to the side like a curious puppy, intrigued despite herself. “What do you think I’m missing?”

Before Sam can reply the pastor’s stomach gurgles loudly. Max flushes brilliantly crimson and looks mortified.

“Did you eat this morning?”

“No,” Max murmurs, clearly ashamed. “I was too anxious.”

“Let’s go get you something to eat,” Sam says definitively. “We can discuss your identity homework over lunch.”

Max freezes. “Sam I’m not—I can’t go on a date with you. I’m not…I’m not mentally ready for that.”

Sam squints in confusion. “I wasn’t planning on it being a date. Can friends not go to lunch together?”

“Oh.” The pastor’s face, which was only just starting to fade back to its normal pallor, heats up again. “Sorry, I don’t normally…”

“Go out to eat with friends?”

Max shrugs and looks embarrassed.

“Well, you do with this one. Get your wallet.”

Max nods and reaches down under her desk to pick up her leather messenger bag. “Where are we going?”

“There’s a café around the corner.”

“I love that café.”

Sam smiles. “Good. Let’s go.”

Max stuffs her notebook in her bag and locks up her office, and then they leave the church. “I’ve been meaning to ask,” Max starts as they walk, “how do you know Ria?”

“It’s a long story,” Sam replies, “but we started out as roommates in a big house share when I came out here for law school.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. And then when I got my divorce she was my therapist.”

Max blinks. Did she hear that right? “You went to therapy?”

The prosecutor nods. “I had a lot of shit to work out when I divorced Jacob.”

“Oh.”

“I had a few sessions with her recently, too. With my Dad, I needed…someone to talk to. Help me through my grieving process, and the guilt.”

Max reels a bit—how could someone as put together as _Sam_ need therapy? But then it would explain Sam’s comfort with talking about her therapy progress, not to mention her investment in making sure Max gets help and follows through with it. “Is that why you’re calm about this?”

Sam laughs. “Maybe. I just know there’s no shame in getting help.”

The pastor nods. “I know...”

“Good. Just remind yourself about that.” Sam holds the door to the café open to her. Max ducks inside. It’s fairly crowded, given it is lunch time. As they wait in line Sam asks, “What do you normally get?”

“I really like their clam chowder,” Max says with smile. “In the sourdough bread bowl? It’s great.”

“They’ve got a good crab cake sandwich, too,” Sam says, “or they did. Back when I still ate meat.”

“It’s not that great,” Max says, with all the snootiness of a person raised on Maryland crab cakes and Old Bay.

Sam rolls her eyes. They order—Max clam chowder and Sam broccoli and cheddar soup—and take a seat at a two person table off to the side.

“Can you show me your list for Ria again?” Sam asks as they wait for their food.

Max takes her note book out of her case and passes it over.

“Do you have a pen?”

Max digs and pulls out one of her fountain pens. Sam eyes it appreciatively for a moment, then turns to the list. She reads it for a second, then flips over the page and writes a few things. Max cranes her neck to see what Sam is scratching into the lines in blue ink.

Finally Sam blows on the ink to dry it and hands the notebook over. Max looks down at the page and gets a bit choked up.

_What Others Think of Me:_

  * _Sweet_
  * _Helpful_
  * _Spiritual Leader_
  * _Caring_
  * _Invested in Community_
  * _Able to Listen, Change & Grow_



“I know it’s not part of your official homework,” Sam says, “but I think it’s important that you know those things. That isn’t just me. I’ve talked to a lot of people at the church, and they all love you, Max. When I first came to the church, and I asked around about you before I brought my concerns, nobody had anything bad to say about you.

“I heard ‘I love Reverend Kushing’ or ‘Max is great’ so many times that I knew I could approach you about supporting queer youth of color. And I know you feel like putting on that clerical collar makes you a different person, but it doesn’t. Underneath that shirt and stole is the same Max Kushing that I’ve gotten to know. Your natural ability to help and heal shines through no matter what you’re wearing or how you’re trying to put yourself out into the world.”

Max swallows past the sudden lump in her throat. “Sam, I—” She trails off, suddenly fighting tears in the middle of a crowded café.

Sam continues on. “Society is really bad at telling people that they matter. We’re conditioned not to do it. Nobody hears about how good they are until they are dead, and it’s kind of too late then. I know you’re struggling right now, with your identity and who you are and who you might be without being butch. I also know that these are things, on that page, are things you can work towards because you’re already them. You’ve just got to dig past all that toxic shit you’ve gotten buried in over the years so you can let who you really are out.”

The pastor nods tearily, not trusting herself to speak. Sam reached over and squeezes her hand, then pulls away as a waiter comes with their food. Sam deals with its distribution and placement, letting Max have time to collect herself.

“Thank you,” Max says hoarsely, finally, as Sam spoons into her soup and takes a cautious sip.

Sam looks up and over at her, then smiles at her. “You’re welcome.”

(Later that night, Max adds A Helper and A Healer to her _What I Want To Be_ list and hopes she can live up to Sam’s description of her.)


	4. Part 4

December is busy. The Dykes have their Christmas drive, Max spends extra hours in the hospitals with the dogs, cheering up kids and families who will not be spending Christmas at home. Then she drives back down to Baltimore to spend a week with her family. The week is slightly fraught with familial drama, and she does not tell them that she has started going to therapy.

January is a welcome relief. With the press of the holidays over and all of her club obligations over for at least a month or two, she focuses on herself. She goes on extra-long walks with the dogs despite the bitter Boston chill. The dogs are happy to frolic in the snow on the icy sidewalk as long as they have their booties on, so Max gets plenty time to think. She likes to watch her breathe rise up in puffs from her mouth as she contemplates Ria’s latest homework assignment.

She thinks a lot about her gender presentation, and what it means to be or not to be butch. She thinks about her community and how it creates its own expectations for people who fall under certain labels.

Her progress is slow. She has fifty years of habits to unlearn.  She really wishes she could go on medication, to help with the anxiety, but she definitely can’t afford even afford even generic drugs. Her lack of progress and inability to afford medication frustrates her to no end. Ria is sympathetic, and patient, but also is not unwilling to call Max out on her shit when she is being ridiculous. The therapist helps her through every new discovery she makes about her identity and her anxiety.

Her identity is a big one. Most of January is spent working on talking about Max’s insecurities around the term, but why she just can’t seem to shake the label. She comes to the conclusion that she doesn’t want to. Butch, despite being a fraught identity for her, is convolutedly safe for her. Stepping away from it, from its connection to the friends she has made and the family she has created from it, terrifies her.

Sam is a God send. Max truly believes that He made their life paths collide for a reason. Sam keeps her in check when Ria is not able (or not around) to. Sam invites her events to get her out of her apartment, and introduces Max to all her lawyer and activist friends who don’t seem to mind in the slightest that she is a lesbian pastor. Sam makes sure she is eating and doing her homework. Sam takes her out to dinner for her birthday. Sam greets her dogs each time she sees them.

Max realizes, all at once on a walk one evening in late February, that she loves Sam.

It’s snuck up on her, but she can’t now think of a future without Sam. She can’t think of a future where she doesn’t ask Sam for help when she needs it, where she doesn’t get to see Sam’s smile and the way it crinkles her eyes. She doesn’t to think about a future where she doesn’t get to hear Sam laugh and feel like her entire body comes alive. She doesn’t want Sam making her a better person daily to every stop.

When she gets home, for the first time in her life, she doesn’t have a panic attack about something new and slightly scary. Instead, she picks up the phone and dials.

Sam picks up on the third ring. _“Fitzgerald residence, Sam speaking.”_

“Hey, Sam, it’s Max.”

 _“Max!”_ Sam’s voice is warm and Max feels her heart flutter because for the first time in a long time she feels really and truly wanted. _“What’s up?”_

“Do you want to go on a date?”

Silence from the other end of the line.

As quickly as Max’s confidence had come, it goes. The panic rises and she stammers, “I-It’s okay if you don’t I know that we haven’t really talked about it but—”

 _“Max, I’d love to go on a date,”_ Sam says, and Max feels her entire body unclench. _“When?”_

“Uh.” She hadn’t gotten that far ahead yet. She sheepishly tells Sam so, and Sam laughs.

 _“Black and Pink is doing a letter writing workshop for LGBT prisoners this Friday after work,”_ Sam suggests. _“Would you like to do that?”_

Max actually knows what Black and Pink is. It’s the prison abolition group that also works to support queer people and their families. She’s not entirely behind on their mission, but she knows that Sam is (which is ironic, she thinks, for a prosecutor). “Okay, sure.”

_“The event is at six at their headquarters which is at 549 Columbus Avenue.”_

Max hurries for a piece of paper to scribble down the address. “549 Columbus Avenue. Six o’clock.”

 _“See you there,”_ Sam says, and Max feels herself smile at the prospect.

“Yeah. I’ll see you there.”

.

.

.

This is not Max’s wheelhouse _at all._  

She’s never been an activist. She only went to the Millennium March with the rest of the Dykes because she had never been to Washington D.C. before. It’s not that she does not believe in causes—she does, wholeheartedly, and supports her causes when she can—it is just that she is not the confrontation type. She leaves the fighting to people like Rebecca and Sam and Jack; she’s better at providing background support than brawling and yelling on the front lines.

It is just the kind of person she is.

Max wears her favorite peacoat to the meeting—it’s grey like the spring sky when it rains, and it has a quilted tartan lining that makes her feel like an investigator in a spy movie. All she needs is a fancy man’s hat, but it’s too cold for that, so instead she wears her warmest ear covers.

Sam is waiting for her when she shows up outside Black and Pink’s office space, and smiles as she approaches. Despite the bitter February chill, the sight of Sam excited to see her makes Max warm.

“Hey,” Sam says when she gets close enough.

“Were you waiting long?” Max asks nervously.

“Just a few minutes. Let’s go inside, it’s freezing.”

They do; the office is upstairs and small, but full of a goodly number of people. As they take off their jackets, Max realizes that the crowd of ten or fifteen is mostly people of color. Max is suddenly very conscious of her whiteness, her privilege, and more worryingly her propensity for putting her foot in her mouth when anxious.

She tries to focus on Sam to quell some of her sudden anxiety. The object of her suddenly-realized affections is wearing a black cashmere turtleneck and smiling as she greets a black woman with braided hair and a nose ring. Then suddenly both of them turn towards her.

“Max, this is Sandra. She’s one of the founders of Black and Pink.”

“Nice to meet you,” Max says out of habit, sticking her hand out.

Sandra takes it with a nod. “Thank you for coming.”

“Thank you for having me,” the pastor replies, then adds quickly, “and for arranging this.”

“We’ll get started soon,” Sandra says, looking over at Sam. “Feel free to get something to drink while we wait.”

Max glances over at where there is a table set up with refreshments. There appears to be very little that Sam can eat, and while Max could theoretically drink the soda there, she is also trying to cut caffeine out of her diet.

“I’m going to get a cup of coffee,” Sam tells Max as Sandra drifts off to greet someone else. “Would you like one?”

“I, uh, actually don’t like coffee.”

Sam looks surprised, then thoughtful. “You do always order hot chocolate, don’t you?”

“Sorry…”

“Don’t be sorry.” The prosecutor looks over at the table critically. “I don’t think they have hot chocolate. Tea?”

“No, I’m fine,” Max says, not wanting to admit she also does not really like tea. “I don’t really want anything.”

“Mmm, okay. I’ll be right back.”

Sam goes off and Max watches her dump two creamers and three sugars into a Styrofoam cup before filling it up with coffee from the urn. She wonders if Sam would like Rebecca’s coffee. She freezes at the thought; she is not yet prepared for even thinking about the idea of anybody from the Dykes discovering her relationship with Sam. She’s certain she would be teased for days at best, and at worst…well, her stomach churns just thinking about the possibilities.

“You’ve got your worried face on,” Sam says critically as she comes back, coffee in hand. She’s also clutching a plate of what appears to be tiny spinach and cheese quiches. “What’s wrong?”

Max shakes her head and quietly revaluates the table. She should have eaten something more substantial than oatmeal before coming, but it was all she had been able to stomach. Now her stomach curls in on itself and she is suddenly ravenous.

“Want one?” Sam asks, and offers the plate of mini quiches to Max.

Max hesitates, then takes one. It’s actually pretty good, and obviously hand made. She chews quietly and is contemplating going to get a plate herself when Sandra moves to the front of the room to address the group.

“Hello, everyone, thank you for coming to our first letter campaign of the year,” she says in a voice that is far more cheerful than how she talked to Max. “We’ve got several new faces tonight, which is encouraging. We’ll come around with the clipboard and get you matched with someone, and then we’ll give you their bio and you can write them a letter. We’ve got envelopes and stamps you can use. We encourage you to put your home address on your envelope and stay in contact with them. Together we hope to keep hope alive until we can get the prison system abolished for good. Does anybody have any questions?”

Max has several, but is too anxious to ask them. She reaches into her pocket for her worry stones. Sam notices the move with a soft frown.

When nobody asks any questions, Sandra says that everyone is free to take a seat while the members of Black and Pink come around with inmate information. Max and Sam sit next to each other in the chair circle that is suddenly arranged in the middle of the room. Others join them and Sam is pulled into a conversation with another person she knows; Max is introduced briefly to the person, but is distracted by the fact Sam’s leg is touching hers and therefore misses the person’s name.

The conversation is arrested as Sandra approaches with a stack of clipboards. She addresses Sam first. “You want someone you can help out again?”

Sam nods. Sandra digs in her stack of clipboards and hands Sam one. “Here you go, baby.” Then she turns towards Max. “Who would you like to write to?”

“Uh…” Max glances nervously at Sam, then at the person Sam was talking to that is now looking at her with some interest. She swallows. “Do you…have anybody who is religious?”

Sandra frowns for a second. Max’s heart seizes for the briefest of seconds before she realizes Sandra is thinking, not judging. After a moment the activist holds up a finger, then goes over to one of the desks shoved to the side. She roots around and finds a piece of paper, which she sticks to a clipboard with a piece of paper and a pen before bringing to Max.

“Here you go. He’s been waiting on a letter for forever, so he’ll be thrilled to hear from you.”

Max smiles weakly and takes the clipboard. “Thank you.”

Sandra moves over to Sam’s friend, and Sam nudges her knee with her own comfortingly.

Max manages a bigger smile for her. “So, um…how do I do this?”

“Have you never written a letter before?” Sam asks teasingly. “Read his bio. Write him a letter.”

“About what?”

“Well, I start by introducing myself,” the prosecutor says with an amused little smile. “Tell them about your job, the church, whatever you want.”

“That isn’t insensitive?” Max twists the pen cap around on the pen she did not even realize she had picked up. “To talk about...out here?”

“No. Most of them like hearing about the outside world.” Sam nods at her clipboard. “Just write. If you want, I can read it over after you are done.”

The pastor nods and starts to read the bio she was given. The gay man she has been connected with is named Christopher. He is two decades younger than her and Hispanic, but in his short bio says that he is a Christian and looking for people to talk to. That is good enough a place as any to start—so Max does.

-/-

Their first date, while unorthodox, is enjoyed by both of them. Max can’t stop thinking about how Sam had taken the time to read her letter and gently pointed out a few corrections, then let Max read her own. After Max had redone her letter, Sam had read the second one and smiled with teeth, and the image is still with Max when she sees Sam the next Sunday after service.

“You kept your eyes on me a lot today,” Sam says with some concern as she reaches up to habitually smooth the lay of Max’s stole, despite the fact service is over and she no longer needs to wear it. “Something wrong?”

I just couldn’t stop looking at you,” the pastor admits shyly. “You look good today.”

Sam’s lips twitch up. “You want to go get lunch?”

Max can barely contain her own smile and is delighted to find that Sam smiles as well. They go to the little café down the block; Max orders a panini, as does Sam. They talk about the differences between Boston, Seattle, and Baltimore’s gay communities until Max realizes with a start that it is starting to get dark and she _really_ has to get home to walk her dogs.

A few days later, Max plucks up her courage (although she needs it less and less with Sam, she realizes) and invites her to a Saturday afternoon reading at Glad Day. It’s a new book by a gay woman of color and she had heard of it and thought Sam might be interested; she is. They agree to meet up at Glad Day.

Max is late to the reading, but Sam takes initiative anyway and slips her hand into the pastor’s anyway. After the reading Max takes her out for Indian to apologize, then drives her home.

“I can’t believe you don’t have a car,” Max says as they pull up in front of Sam’s apartment building in the West End.

“It would just eat up my money,” Sam says, then reaches over and pats her knee. “Besides, how would I get a handsome reverend to drive me home if I constantly drove myself everywhere?”

Max is glad it is dark, because she is certain she is blushing. She ducks her head and doesn’t know how to respond to that she instead she says, “Well…g’night, I guess. See you tomorrow?”

“Mmmhmm, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Sam says as she collects her things. Then she pauses and turns on the globe light. “Max, may I kiss you goodnight?”

The pastor stammers, surprised by how forward she is with the question. But then again, this _is_ Sam. “I—y-yeah, if you want.”

Sam smiles, leans over, and quickly pecks Max on the lips. She pulls away before it can go too far, but her eyes twinkle in a way that says she enjoyed it.“Okay?”

Max nods and is painfully aware that she is smiling foolishly.

Sam smiles, too. “Good night, Max. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Uh huh.”

Sam squeezes her knee, gives her another brief peck, then gets out of her car. Max has butterflies in her stomach the entire way home.

For the first time in months, she has trouble sleeping for something unrelated to her anxiety.

-/-

By late April they had been on four official dates. After the fourth date, where they went to an indie movie theatre and saw some weird flick that both of them thought was a bit left of strange, they kissed in Max’s car until the windows fogged up and Max’s watch alarm reminded her she had to get home.  

As Max drives Sam home before she heads home herself, a thought occurs to her. As she pulls up to Sam’s increasingly familiar apartment building she asks tentatively, “Sam?”

“Max?” Sam parrots.

“Would you…like to come over for dinner next week?”

“I don’t know, are you cooking?” Sam asks teasingly. Max nods wordlessly. The prosecutor smiles. “I’d love to come over. When?”

“Next Friday?”

“Alright.” Sam leans over and gives her a kiss. “I’m excited to see what you make.”

Max’s lips twitch up and hopes she won’t disappoint.

.

.

.

Three days later, the phone in Max’s living room rings after work, interrupting the pastor from her reading. She wonders if it’s Sam; the traitorous part of her anxiety says it is the prosecutor calling to cancel. She takes a deep breath to quell her sudden nausea and grabs the receiver.

“Max Kushing, how can I help you?”

_“Hey Max, it’s Connie.”_

Max blinks. She had not been expecting a call from her. “Connie, hey,” she says, and stretches the phone cord back to her chair, twirling it around her finger as she does. “How’s domestic bliss?”

Connie chuckles on the other end. _“It’s alright. How’re you going?”_

“I’m okay. What’s up?”

_“Nothing much. I’m just callin’ cuz Alison Bechdel is going to be at Glad Day this Friday. I know you follow her stuff, wanna to go to her signing?”_

Max’s stomach bottoms out. Of course the only thing she’s actually been invited to by other members of the Dykes clashes with something she is doing with Sam. Still, she wonders if she can make it, even for a little bit. “Uh, what time?”

_“After work. I think Becca said it was six?”_

Max winces. She’s expecting Sam at six thirty. “I…can’t, Connie, sorry. I’ve got…a standing church thing on Friday.”

 _“Ah, okay.”_ Connie does not sound disappointed. The invite was probably perfunctory, anyway. Nobody ever really wants Max to come to anything anyway. _“—any of your books signs, get them to us and we’ll take them for you.”_

“Okay,” the pastor says, but she doesn’t mean it. “Talk to you later, Wills.”

_“Enjoy your church thing. Talk later.”_

Connie hangs up the phone first. It is a long time before Max stands up and hangs up her own.

-/-

 

Max is in her kitchen putting the finishing touches on dinner when her buzzer rings. The dogs all sit up in excitement. She wipes her hands and goes over to the intercom.

“Sam?”

_“Yup.”_

“C’mon up.” She clicks so the door will unlock and waits by the door. A minute or so later Sam knocks politely. Max opens the door as the dogs all rush for the door to see who the visitor is.

“Hey, cutie,” Sam says warmly, then steps into the apartment and kneels down to greet the dogs. “Hey, dudes.”

Fili licks her face and Sam laughs and rubs his sides enthusiastically. Max smiles and closes the door.

“Dinner’s almost ready. I was just about to plate it.”

“Plate it? We’re getting fancy tonight, huh?”

Max ducks her head, embarrassed. Sam stands and looks around; it’s her first time in the apartment. Max waits for her to pass judgement.

“When you said you had a lot of books, I thought you were exaggerating.”

The pastor laughs nervously and glances back at her bookcases that are absolutely stuffed to the brim with titles. “Yeah, I do have a lot…”

“That’s not a bad thing,” Sam says, giving each of the dogs a few more pats before coming in closer to Max. “You got your hair cut since Sunday.”

“Yeah...”

“You look good.” Sam reaches out and touches the shorn sides of Max’s hair, where Max knows she can see the grey. “You didn’t dye it.”

“No,” the pastor says shyly.

“I like it.”

Max smiles, hesitates, then leans forward and gives Sam a gentle kiss on the cheek.

Sam tilts her head and gives her a brief peck in return, then looks towards the kitchen when the main dish is cooling on the stove. “What did you make for dinner?”

“It’s a lentil, mushroom, and nut loaf, served with green beans and—“ the timer goes off “—scalloped potatoes.” Max hurries over to the timer and twists it off, then grabs a pair of oven mitts and goes to take the scalloped potatoes out of the oven.

Sam watches her do it with a smile. Despite the fact it is finally warming up outside, Max is wearing a chunky men’s cardigan over her shirt and tie. With the oven mitts on and her salt and pepper hair, she looks incredibly domestic. Sam loves it.

“Can I help with anything?” Sam asks.

“Feed the monsters,” Max says, nodding at the three underfoot bulldogs with her chin as she sets the potatoes on the stove. “Their food is in the closet. They each get a scoop in their bowls and you’ll be their favorite person in the world until breakfast.”

The prosecutor laughs goes and does as she was asked. There is much scraping of bulldog claws on the crowd as they realize she is feeding them. They all crowd her, but she manages to get the food down, and they chow down happily within seconds of her scooping out the food.

She joins Max in the kitchen to wash her hands and sees the pastor has neatly plated the food. “That looks really good.”

Max pinks a bit. “What do you want to drink? I’ve got…well I’ve got water and hot chocolate, honestly.”

“Water is fine,” Sam says with a smile, and she carries the plates to Max’s small dining table that is tucked against the back of the couch in the middle of the room. The pastor has set it neatly with cloth napkins and quilted place settings. Sam inspects them with interest.

“My, uh, sister made those,” Max says as she comes over with two iceless glasses of water and sees what Sam is looking at. “She’s a costume designer for one of the Baltimore theatres and she sews on the side for craft fairs and stuff to make ends meet.”

“Really?” Sam asks, fingering the placemat one last time before moving to sit down. “They’re beautiful.”

“I’ll tell her you said so,” Max says, and sits down as well. She moves to grab her fork, then hesitates. “I—uh—whenever I eat at home I say grace. Do you mind?”

“Of course not.”

Max smiles and bows her head. “Lord, thank you very much for this meal, and for the woman sharing it with me. I’m very grateful that you have blessed me with this opportunity and will continue to serve you as best as I am able and look to you for guidance and strength on my road to self-discovery and healing… Thank you. Amen.”

“Amen,” Sam says softly. “Thank you, Max.”

The pastor flushes.

“Speaking of self-discovery,” Sam says as she cuts into her loaf with her fork, “how was therapy?”

“It was okay,” Max says honestly, starting in on her potatoes. “We’re, uh, still working through problems instead jumping to conclusions or letting the anxiety run my decision making.”

Sam nods. “Do you think it’s helping?”

“I don’t know,” the pastor replies. “I mean, therapy is helping. Lots. It’s just…slow.”

“It’s not a magic fix,” Sam replies with a knowing nod. “You’re making good progress though, I think.”

“Thanks.”

Sam smiles and takes a bite of the nut loaf. Max waits for her reaction with bated breath. “…Max, this is great. You didn’t tell me you could cook!”

“Yeah, well…” Max looks a bit embarrassed at the praise and pushes her green beans around on her plate as a result. “I make it a lot, actually. One of the other members of the Dykes on Bikes is a vegetarian so I bring it to the potlucks a lot so she has something to eat.”

“You’re so sweet,” Sam reaches over for Max’s free hand and takes it in hers. Max smiles shyly and squeezes her fingers in response.

They eat quietly, with a bit of talk about Sam’s week at work. When they finish up, Max invites Sam over to the couch for a game of chess on her coffee table.

“Is this a record player?” Sam asks as Max goes to get her travel set from the bookshelf.

Max twists to see what she is looking at. She is, indeed, looking at Max’s turntable, which is tucked in the shelf level of her coffee table. “Uh huh. Got it in college and it still works.”

Sam smiles. “What do you listen to?”

“Mostly classical piano, some gospel,” Max replies, going to her record collection and pulling out one of her favorite vinyls. “Want to listen?”

“Sure.”

The pastor brings the disc, and her chess set, over. As Max fusses with the turntable, Sam sets up the chessboard. Soon, the notes of some piano song Sam does not recognize pumps out of the little record player and she and Max become embroiled in a heated game of chess.

Fortyfive minutes later, they end in a draw. Most of their pieces have been sacrificed to the cause, and when they are both reduced to their kings and pawns, they realize the game cannot go on any further.

“Do you want to play again?” Max asks as she starts to collect all the pieces up again.

“Mmm, maybe,” Sam drawls, “but I also sort of want to make out with my partner on her couch.”

It takes Max a second to realize Sam means her. She is not used to being someone’s significant other. She hasn’t been someone’s _partner_ in a long time. She leans back on the couch, arm going naturally across the back, and Sam moves in to cup her face gently. Then, once she is sure she has Max’s attention, she kisses her. Max melts a bit, especially when the prosecutor scoots nearer and wraps her free arm around her waist.

This is nice. She could get used to this.

They kiss, slow, gentle, and unhurried, for what seems like forever. Finally Sam breaks the kiss but stays close. Her thumb strokes absently along the column of Max’s throat and the pastor gets a bit of an illicit thrill from the sensation.

“I just realized we’ve never talked about sex,” Sam says, then quickly clarifies, “not that I expect us to have it anytime soon. We just haven’t talked about our boundaries.”

Max ducks her head in acknowledgement. They might not have talked about it, but recently she certainly has thought about it.

“Are you okay with sex?” Sam asks.

“Yeah. But I’m not really comfortable, you know…” She pauses delicately. “On top?”

“I had a feeling,” Sam says fondly.

“It’s been a problem in the past,” Max says hesitantly.

“Well it isn’t a problem here,” Sam says, then leans up to give her a mollifying kiss. “I appreciate you being honest with me.”

“I’m learning,” Max says wryly.

The prosecutor laughs. “That you are, baby. That you are.”

-/-

Max might be learning to be open and honest with Sam, but with the Dykes it’s another story. As the first big ride of the season draws nearer she is no closer to breaking her fake butch façade than she was in September when she first met Sam. She talks about strategies with Ria, but she chickens out every time she thinks about actually telling somebody.

She feels like she’s in college again, when she first finally let herself accept that she liked girls. It had taken her years to come to terms with it, and even more years to live her life authentically. She left that closet, but only after being thrust out. The years after her ex-girlfriend had outed her to her family because her incongruous Christian and lesbian identities had not been pretty.

Perhaps that is why she is just as nervous about this new gender identity secret as she was about her sexual one all those years ago. Back then, she at least had her gay friends to fall back on. Now, coming out as genderqueer, as gender nonconforming, as not butch…she knows how transphobic the community can be from watching from the sidelines. She’s seen other lesbians come out as transgender and be excommunicated from the lesbian bars practically overnight.

She has too much to lose. So she stays quiet.

Despite feeling more trapped than ever, there’s a change about her. She’s able to deal with her anxieties better, which keeps her mouth shut more and her attention wandering less. Apparently, this is cause for concern for Connie and Jack, who corner her before the beginning of their meeting.

“You’ve been real quiet recently,” Jack comments from where they’ve quite literally boxed Max into the kitchen. Rebecca, who would have probably been no help anyway, has made herself conspicuously absent.

“You’re usually nonstop,” Jack continues, “what’s up in Max land that has you so quiet, buddy?”

“Is there something wrong with the church?” Connie asks before Max can respond, concern evident in her round features. “Your dogs? You aren’t coming to events, you aren’t talking…this isn’t like you, Max.”

Max is flabbergasted by this show of concern. She would have thought they would be happy she learned to control her motor mouth. ”I’m—everything’s fine, guys,” she says, which is actually for once mostly true.

Neither Connie nor Jack looks convinced.

“Guys, I swear, it’s fine,” she says, “there’s nothing wrong with the guys or at church. I’m just—”

“You’re just?” Jack asks, dark eyebrow winging upwards.

“I’m just working on bettering myself,” she says, which isn’t a lie. Not really. “Listening more. Being a better person. You know.”

Both Jack and Connie look equally nonplussed. Whatever they had been expecting, it obviously had not been that.

“What brought this on?” Connie wants to know.

Max shrugs, tries to play it cool. “Turned fifty. You know. You think about things.”

Rebecca comes into the kitchen just then and pushes past the wall of butch blocking Max into the kitchen nook so she can refill her coffee. “She’s having a secondary midlife crisis and is trying to get into Heaven now that she’s realized she’s been a cocky, flirtatious asshole most of her life.”

Jack sputters in laughter and Connie pinches the bridge of her nose at her life partner’s lack of emotional tact. Max, thankfully, has dealt with Rebecca Gallaro for long enough that she does not miss a beat.

“Thanks, Becca. Love you, too.”

The engineer rolls her eyes and rinses out her mug, then reaches for the coffee pot to fill it again. Rebecca’s interlude ends the conversation, for which Max is grateful for. Her secret is still safe.

By the end of the meeting she is exhausted from pretending to be butch. She goes home and lays flat on her back in bed, absenting petting her bulldogs. She doesn’t know how long she can keep doing this. She doesn’t know how she is going to end it. She sighs, rolls over, cuddles Samwise, and tries not to think about it.


	5. Part 5

She opens the door to her apartment after the first group ride of the season, the big Memorial Day ride, to find Sam in her apartment. She’s less surprised by the fact that Sam is there (she asked her to watch her dogs for the weekend) than the fact that Sam is apparently preparing dinner. Sam hates cooking.

“Hi,” Max says, setting her helmet and gloves on the table by the door and hanging up her keys.

Sam doesn’t look up from the pot she’s stirring. “Hey. How was the ride?”

Max groans softly and shuffles over to her, dodging her pups to wrap her arms around her from behind. She tucks her face into Sam’s neck and nuzzles there.

Sam twists and presses a kiss to her hair. “That great, huh?”

“It’s so hard to be around them,” Max whines softly.

The prosecutor makes a sympathetic noise and continues to stir whatever she has got going in the pot. It’s dark and slightly lumpy and undoubtedly vegetarian but smells amazing. “If everyone else had not been there, would it have been a good ride?”

“Probably. It was a nice day.” Max rests her head on Sam’s shoulder and watches as she squishes one of the bigger lumps against the side of the pot to break it up. “Sam…?”

“Max,” Sam replies, warmth and tinge of humor coloring her name in a way that makes the pastor’s heart flutter.

 “I’m tired of pretending…”

“To be butch?”

Max nods and tucks the lower half of her face against Sam’s shoulder.

“But?” her partner prompts after a moment.

“I’m scared,” Max says softly, the words mostly obscured by the fabric of Sam’s shirt.

Sam seems to hear them fine. She turns off the burner and sets her hand on where Max’s are looped around her middle. “What are you scared of?”

“You know...”

The prosecutor sighs softly. “Is this an irrational fear?”

“I don’t know.” Max swallows thickly. “Sam I’ve known some on them since...it’s not…I’ve seen—if they dump me I don’t have…”

Sam turns around and takes Max’s face in her hands. “Max, have then given _any_ indication that they would throw you out of the Dykes on Bikes for not being a hardcore white butch?”

Max pauses for a long time, then slowly shakes her head.

“Are there other soft white butches and androgynous folk in Dykes on Bikes?”

“Yes…”

“Then that’s step one to realizing this might be an irrational fear.”

“But I don’t…there’s nobody _genderqueer_ in Dykes on Bikes,” the pastor whines softly.

Sam leans forward and gives her a gentle kiss on the forehead. “You still want to go by female pronouns, right?”

Max nods.

“Then maybe it’s not something you have to announce at the next meeting, baby. Maybe it’s just the way you change yourself. Stop posturing and start dressing the way you dress for me. You don’t have to come out to anybody as genderqueer to stop being butch.”

The pastor sighs and leans her forehead against her. “But I don’t know _how_ to stop.”

“We can work on that together, and with Ria,” Sam says firmly, and gives her hair a gentle kiss. “In the meantime, do you want to help me get dinner served?”

“Okay.” Max pauses, then looks at the thickening sludge in the pot. “What exactly is it, anyway?”

“What I had left in my fridge, plus what I could steal from yours,” the prosecutor replies cheekily, her eyes twinkling teasingly. At Max’s eye roll she says, “Leftover tofu, black beans, chilis, corn, spices, and in a second, sour cream and cheese. Made into soup.”

“It actually sounds good,” Max admits, and pulls away to get bowls down. “Don’t give any to the dogs, though, they’ll be gassy all night.”

Sam laughs. Max pours the soup into bowls. Sam adds shredded cheese and a dollop of sour cream to each bowl. Max goes to feed the three bulldogs in question to get them out from under foot.

Sam carries the bowls to Max’s table, then returns for silverware. The pastor gets navy cloth napkins from one of her kitchen cabinets and they sit at the table together, listening to the dogs scarf their food down.

“I have to go to Haymarket tomorrow,” Sam says as they tuck in to the soup. “Do you want to come with me?”

“You just want me for my car,” Max teases.

The prosecutor rolls her eyes. “I wouldn’t mind, but _someone_ was out on a bike ride all day today and I missed her.”

Max flushes pleasantly. “You did?”

“Yes, I did.” Sam passes her spoon through the soup. “Afterwards we could go take the dogs to the park before dinner?”

That brings a smile to Max’s face. “That sounds great.”

.

.

.

They carpool to church together, and sit in the pews together while a guest lecture talks about an interpretation of the Bible Max doesn’t necessarily agree with, but keeps quiet about because the pastor is entitled to her own opinion. They finally get out to Haymarket in the early afternoon.

Max doesn’t often shop at Haymarket. She is reminded why the second they get close; the market is packed, thrumming with activity and far louder than Max’s quiet neighborhood grocery store. Haymarket might be several times cheaper than her favorite corner store, and the savings shopping at Haymarket could afford her would be huge, but she remembers why she doesn’t come here. It is far too large and crowded for her, especially on nice summer days such as today. 

Max reaches to hold Sam’s hand and stuffs the other in her pocket to fuss with her worry stones. Sam squeezes her hand in reassurance and they quickly get to shopping. Max lets Sam lead partially because she has no idea where anything is, but also because Sam has possession of both their lists.

The pastor has never really liked vegetables, or greens, but she watches Sam buy so many for so cheap that she wonders if maybe she should give them another go. Max holds her bags of produce while Sam pays less out of butch chivalry and more because she wants to. Sam does the same when Max pays for a slightly unholy number of mushrooms from a stall with more kinds of fungus than Max has ever seen before in her life. Somehow it feels right.

Finally they get away from the hectic produce market and head towards the stalls that have other things, like dairy and meat. Despite her vegetarianism, Sam guides Max to the best butcher stall in Haymarket and helps her pick out two fat chickens for roasting.

It’s as Max is debating on whether or not to buy a ham as well that she hears her name being called.

She looks up and freezes, because she’s in the middle of New Meat Market holding two dead chickens with one hand and Sam Fitzgerald’s hand in the other, and Connie fucking Williams is standing in front of her.

Connie grins. “It is you! What are you doing here?”

Max gestures helplessly with her two shrink-wrapped chickens. “Y-Y’now—”

She can’t get anything more than that out. It’s like she’s momentarily lost the ability to speak. Max is suddenly very aware of the fact she’s wearing a short-sleeved salmon button up and cargo shorts, clothing Connie has never even come close to seeing her in. Thankfully, or perhaps unthankfully, Connie zeros in on Sam, and the fact she is holding Max’s hand.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” the butch says warmly, holding out her hand. “Connie.”

Sam extricates her hand from Max’s suddenly sweaty palm and shakes. “Sam.”

“Nice to meet you, Sam.”

“How do you know Max?” Sam asks, although she’s pretty sure she knows exactly who this large friendly woman is.

“We’re in the same motorcycle club,” Connie says cheerfully. “I’m the vice president.”

“Ah, you’re that Connie.”

The butch grins. “Guilty as charged.” She looks between the two of them. “So…how do _you_ two know each other?”

The prosecutor glances at Max, knowing she has not been open about their relationship with the Dykes. “Well…”

“Church,” Max says stiffly, suddenly regaining her gift of speech. “Sorry, I have to pay for these, I’ll be right back.”

She scurries towards the counter, knowing the entire way there that she is taking the coward’s way out. So sue her. She’s a coward. She fumbles with her wallet and the chickens but finally gets the transaction completed.

When she turns around she sees Sam waiting alone by the entrance of the stall. Max does something very akin to slinking on her way over to her.

“Got your chickens?” Sam asks.

“Uh huh,” she says sheepishly.

“Then I think we’re done,” Sam says, pulling a pen out of her pocket and crossing the final item off of Max’s list. “Want to head back to the car?”

“Okay.”

Sam takes her hand again and they start the walk back through the market towards the parking lot. The walk is quiet, which does nothing to help Max’s mounting anxiety.

“Are you mad at me?” she asks as they walk, because she needs to know.

“Of course not,” Sam says, and squeezes her hand. Then she pauses. “I think you could have handled that better.”

Max feels her cheeks heat up in shame. “I know…”

“You’re right, she’s very butch,” Sam says conversationally as they enter the parking lot. “She invited me to the Fourth of July party.”

Max pales and quickly busies herself with pulling the keys to her car out of her pockets. “Oh.”

“I told her I’d think about it,” the prosecutor tells her.

Max nods robotically and unlocks the car. They load Sam’s groceries into the trunk, and Max’s into the backseat. Max gets into the driver’s seat and scrubs her hands over her face. “Fuck…”

“Are you okay?” Sam asks.

“I don’t know.” She doesn’t feel like she is having a panic attack, but she feels an impending sense of doom that comes before she starts thinking about bad scenarios and then has a panic attack. She takes a deep breath and counts slowly backwards from ten, and thinks about what Ria would say. “I feel like I’ve been outed. I didn’t—that wasn’t how I wanted you to be introduced.”

“If it was up to you, I’m uncertain if I’d be introduced at all,” Sam says humorlessly.

Max winces.

“Did anything bad happen?” Sam asks.

“…No.”

“One might say something good happened. I was invited to a party,” Sam continues, reaching down to take Max’s hand.

“Yeah, but what if the other Dykes don’t like you. What if—”

“One thing at a time, baby,” Sam says gently, and smooths her thumb over Max’s knuckles. “Why’d you fly out of there when she showed up?”

“I was scared,” Max murmurs.

“Why?”

“I dunno.”

Sam gives her a look.

Finally Max mumbles, shamefaced, “I was scared of being judged.”

“Judged for what?”

“For not introducing you sooner, for—for being with another masculine-presenting person instead of a femme, for being dressed like this, for—you know. All the usual reasons.”

Sam hums and gently squeezes her hand. “If it makes you feel any better, Connie didn’t say anything about any of that. She was nice to me. Also, she told me to tell you she liked your new hair.”

The pastor sighs and leans her head back against the headrest. “Connie’s nice to everyone.”

“It sounded sincere.”

Max stares at the ceiling of her car and doesn’t respond.

Sam’s thumb returns to its journey over her knuckles. “I know you’re scared of being rejected, baby. And that’s okay. That’s human. But you’ve got to let situations play out before you bolt.”

“I know,” the pastor whispers.

Sam smiles and squeezes her hand. “I’m proud of you, though. For going through the produce section with all those people there and being okay.”

Max turns her head towards her and smiles softly. Sam gives her hand another squeeze. After a second the pastor leans over and gives her a shy kiss to her cheek. “Thank you for keeping me level headed.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll try to stick through hard situations longer next time.”

“I know you will.”

Max buzzes her cheek again, and Sam turns her head toward her mouth. They kiss, soft and sweet but slightly passionate, like they aren’t in a car in the middle of a very public parking lot.

After a moment Max pulls away and gives a hesitant little smile. “Next stop, your place? To drops off the groceries?”

Sam nods. “Then your place to drop of yours and pick up the dogs.”

“Okay.”

-/-

Max dreads the next officers meeting, the one they are going to have to plan the big Fourth of July ride and subsequent party at Jack’s house. She knows what is coming and despite help from both Ria and Sam, works herself up about it long before the meeting is set to happen.

“It’s going to be fine,” Sam tells her, and smooths the lines of Max’s black v-neck before she leaves.

“And what if it isn’t?” the pastor asks anxiously, twisting her keys in her hands.

“Then we’ll go out for dinner tonight and you can start hanging out with my friends.” Sam leans forward and gives her a gentle kiss. “Do you have your worry stones?”

The pastor nods.

“Good.” Sam kisses her again. “You’ve got this, baby. I believe in you.”

Max wishes she believed in herself. She takes the long way to Rebecca and Connie’s but still somehow shows up early. She dithers around in her car until she sees Jack pull up on her motorcycle. She forces herself out of her car and locks up.

“Hey, Max!” Jack says cheerfully as she approaches the front steps to Connie and Rebecca’s townhouse, helmet swinging from one hand. “No bike today?”

“It’s in the shop,” Max lies, and stuffs her hands in the pockets of her slacks. It is warming up now, and wearing slacks is actually slightly uncomfortable, but Max still could not shake the armor her business wear gave her. The v-neck was her concession to the heat and her own identity, but she feels naked without a blazer.

Jack is unaware of her internal struggle. She seems more concerned about Max’s bike. “That sucks. Is it okay?”

“Just a tune up,” Max replies, swallowing nervously as they climb the stairs.

Jack nods and knocks on the door. “Wasn’t riding well last week?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, hope it gets fixed up.”

Max smiles tightly but is saved from response by Connie opening the door.

“Hey, guys, c’mon in.” Connie opens the door and they tromp in.

Max carefully slips off her Vans and puts them in the hall closet. Jack and Connie talk as Jack unlaces her boots, so Max slips past them and into the kitchen. Rebecca is already there, looking as intimidating as ever, sipping coffee from a mug.

“Hey, Becca.”

Rebecca nods at her. “Max.”

Max is saved from saying anything stupid by Connie and Jack blustering in. Jack makes a beeline for the coffee pot and Connie leans on the counter.

“So Max,” Connie starts, and Max’s stomach bottoms out because here it is, the moment she knew would happen. “How long have you been with Sam?”

Rebecca looks up with interest. Max has a long history of not really dating, and she has not _been with_ anyone seriously in years. Max is well aware of this, and well aware that Rebecca knows this. Her stomach curls into a knot.

“What’s this?” Jack asks as she’s pouring coffee. “Who’s Sam?”

“Max’s new girl.”

“I’d appreciate if you’d let me say that, Connie,” Max says quickly. Everyone looks at her. Max is pretty sure she wants to die.

Connie blinks, then nods her head. “Sorry, Max, my bad.”

“It’s okay,” the pastor says softly.

“You’ve got a new girl?” Jack asks enthusiastically, ignoring the fact Connie made a social blunder. “Congrats! What’s she like?”

“Um, well,” Max finds herself fussing with her hands. She lets herself do it. “She’s a prosecutor. We met at church and she, uh, told me we needed to donate to more organizations that support youth of color.”

“And you started dating her?”

“Max likes strong women,” Rebecca says dryly from the table. Max feels her face burn.

“How come you didn’t bring her on the ride last week?” Jack asks, bringing her coffee over.

“She’s not real fond of motorcycles,” Max says.

“Well then she’ll have to go,” the short butch jokes, then punches Max gently in the arm at the look on her face. “I’m kidding, buddy.”

“She like your dogs?”

Max smiles softly at Connie’s question. “Yeah. She’s great with them. We take them on walks together and uh, go to the dog park.”

“That’s gross,” Jack says warmly, and takes a seat at the table.

Connie keeps up with the questions. “How long you guys been together?”

“We uh, met in September but…” Max scratches behind her ear. “We didn’t start seriously, uh, dating until March.”

“Is that why you couldn’t come to the Bechdel signing?” Rebecca asks sharply.

Jack laughs and teases, “Shit, she left us for a hot date. I see where we stand now.”

“She the reason you stopped dyin’ your hair?”

Okay, now Max wishes the floor would open up and swallow her whole. Her silence and burning cheeks are more telling than any verbal response she could give.

“Well, as long as she makes you happy, that’s all we care about,” says Connie cheerfully. “By the way, there’s hot chocolate mix in the cupboard and the kettle’s hot, if you want to have some.”

Max is thankfully spared from response by a knock on the door. Connie goes to answer it, and Max goes to make a cup of hot chocolate, even if it is just Swiss Miss and it is really too warm outside now to drink it. She is thankful when Jack engages Rebecca in conversation. It still doesn’t mean she won’t interject and say something stupid, but at least she is out of the public spotlight.

It had gone better than she had even dared to hope.


	6. Part 6

“How are you doing, Max?” Sam asks, four weeks later as they drive to Jack and Andrea’s house in Somerville for the Fourth of July party.

“I’m anxious,” she responds honestly, without taking her eyes off the road or her white-knuckled grip off the wheel.

The prosecutor makes a soft noise and leans over to touch her leg gently. “Let’s talk through, baby. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“They hate you,” Max says quietly, swallowing thickly. “They kick us out. I’m never allowed back.”

“And the best?”

The pastor takes a shuddering breath to calm herself. “You get along with everyone and they accept our relationship and they don’t tease me about it.”

“And how about the middle?”

Another breath and Max’s flexes her fingers against the steering wheel. “They accept us but tease me about it. You get along with some people but not others.”

Sam nodded. “Mmhm. And are two of those three options passable?”

“Uh huh.” Max glances to her and gives her a weak smile. “Thanks, Sam.”

The prosecutor smiles and squeezes her partner’s thigh gently. “Of course, baby. It’s what I’m here for.”

They pull up in front of Jack’s house and as they get out they can smell the barbeque and hear the sound of people talking out back. Sam looks over at Max and finds her ashen despite her encouragement. She goes over and takes her hand.

“Breathe, Max. I’m right here.”

Max breathes. She closes her eyes and forces air in and out of her lungs. She feels like a complete and utter fool. Imagine having a panic attack over something as simple as her friends meeting her girlfriend?

Sam squeezes her hand. “Talk to me, baby. You okay?”

“No,” Max admits quietly, “but I just need to get it over with. Rip off the Band-Aid. I can’t hide you forever.”

“No, you can’t.”

The pastor smiles weakly and reaches us to fuss with Sam’s chain. Sam wears it a lot, but it’s often hidden under her button ups. Max first discovered it when they made love the first time; now, as it is exposed at the neck of Sam’s tank top, Max can’t help but reach out to fiddle with it.

It is testament of how concerned Sam is that she allows her partner the distraction. She puts her hand on Max’s hips and rubs there gently. “I’ll be with you the entire time, baby.”

The roar of a motorcycle coming down the street cuts through their conversation. They look up to see a big butch cruise up the road on a cherry red Harley.

“That’s Al,” Max says as she recognizes the bike and its rider.

Al pulls to a stop in front of them and kills the engine, then unstraps her helmet and looks Sam up and down. “This your new girl, Max?”

“You can ask me that question,” Sam says sharply. “And yes, I am her girlfriend. Sam.”

Al’s eyebrow rises from behind her sunglasses, but she sticks out a hand anyway. “Al.”

Max is happy to see Sam shakes Al’s hand hard. Al looks surprised as she retracts her hand, then nods in approval. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

 Al points to Max with one large finger and says gruffly, “Be good to this one. She needs it.”

Max coughs pointedly and takes Sam’s hand. “See you inside, Al.”

“See ya.”

“I thought nobody else knew?” Sam asks softly as they get far enough out of earshot that Al can’t hear them.

“They don’t,” Max replies as they walk through the alley to Jack and Andrea’s backyard. “It’s a long story, but the short form is she lived with me a bit while she was getting back on her feet. She likes to pretend it was her helping me out instead of the other way ‘round.”

This time it is the prosecutor who raises an eyebrow. “You’ll have to tell me the rest of that sometime.”

“I will,” Max promises.

“Max! Sam!” Connie calls from up on the porch as they round the corner into the yard.  “Hey!”

Max raises her hand weakly.

“See, she’s happy to see us,” Sam says, and gives her hand a squeeze. Then she looks at the other inhabitants of the porch. “That her partner? The tall one? The one you told me about?”

Max looks as well. “Uh huh. That’s Becca.”

“Who’s the short Asian?”

“That’s Jack.”

Sam nods. “Shall we go say hello?”

“Might as well get it over with.”

Sam squeezes her hand again and they head for the porch. Max feels queasy as the climb the stairs.

“Hey, Sam, thanks for coming,” Connie cheerfully as they approach. “You want a beer?”

“Sure.”

“We’ve got Budweiser, Heineken, and Sam Adams.”

“Heineken.”

Connie grins. “I knew I liked you. I’ll be right back. Max, you want a Sam Adams?”

“Sure,” Max says, mostly out of reflex than anything, then adds, “Get one for Al, too, she’s locking up.”

The big butch nods and disappears into the house, leaving Max awkwardly on the porch with Jack, Sam, and Rebecca.

“You gonna introduce us or what?” Jack asks Max, amused, then sticks her hand out. “Jack Eun-Li. You must be Sam.”

“I am,” Sam says with a smile, and takes her hand, then turns to Rebecca.

The engineer introduces herself and Sam shakes her hand as well. Rebecca gets right into it. “Max says you’re a prosecutor?”

“I am,” Sam says.

“What do you do for work?”

“I work prosecuting sexual assaults, child pornography, and sex trafficking cases for the Massachusetts government.”

“That must be depressing as hell,” Jack says conversationally as she swigs her beer.

“It’s actually incredibly rewarding.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Getting the victims justice is one of the best things I can do,” Sam says, “especially when these cases aren’t often taken seriously or are shoved under rugs by the privileged.”

Max watches a tiny approving smile (or maybe more of a smirk) appear on Rebecca features. She had had a feeling that Rebecca, with her activist streak a mile long, would get along with Sam.  

Connie comes back from getting beer and passes them out just as Al comes around the corner.

“You got my grill started for me yet?” Al asks Jack as she thumps up the stairs, heavy boots clunking on the steps despite the July warmth.

 “Your coals and sauces await, my liege,” Jack says jokingly, bowing and gesturing dramatically at the grill in question.

Connie bumps her fist against Al’s shoulder and hands her the beer. The bigger butch grins and salutes her with it. “Thanks, Wills.”

“Did you guys buy vegetarian burgers?” Max asks, suddenly aware of the fact that their barbeques are highly meat based and that she herself did not bring a nut loaf or scalloped potatoes like she usually does. She had been to too distracted, and she’s still slightly bad at remembered spaces outside her own apartment and the restaurants she and Sam go to are not vegetarian friendly.

“Yeah, don’t worry, we got you and Jamie covered.”

Max looks out at the group of people playing football in Jack and Andrea’s backyard. She doesn’t see the skinny, tattooed form of Andrea and Jack’s boarder. “Where is Jamie, anyway?”

“She’s finishing up her shift, she’ll be here soon,” Jack says, then pauses and clarifies for Sam, “Jamie’s a paramedic. She works odd hours, and today is odder than most.”

At least she isn’t working tonight,” Max jokes. She cannot imagine being a paramedic on any holiday, let alone July 4th.

“Is Jame bringing Erika when she comes back?” Connie asks.

“I think Erika’s picking her up from work.”

“Erika’s Jamie’s girlfriend,” Max murmurs to Sam, who is looking a bit overwhelmed by the sheer scope of people she is being to be introduced to.

“There’re a lot of you…”

“You have no idea,” Rebecca says flatly.

Sam laughs and lets go of Max’s hand; Max panics for a second, until the prosecutor opens her beer then slides her free arm around Max’s waist. Max settles into her arm and pops open her own beer, sliding her hand into the back pocket of Sam’s jean shorts. Sam kisses her shoulder and Max looks up just in time to see Jack smiling.

“You guys are cute,” the forewoman says.

Max feels her face heat up and takes a swig of her Sam Adams to keep from answering. Connie asks Sam something, and then they are off talking about her job and activism and her favorite television shows. Max stays quiet and gauges the warmth of the group towards them.

Rebecca has her arms crossed loosely over her chest, listening to Sam with a pensive expression, occasionally nodding along. She doesn’t seem against the conversation at all. Jack is listening, too, and interjects comments in between Connie’s. Al, from where she is tending the grill, keeps glancing over as Sam fields questions.

Max’s stomach is queasy, but for once she isn’t certain it is from anxiety. She thinks it might be because they like her. They like Sam. Is she…excited? Is that what she’s feeling?

“You okay, baby?” Sam asks in a soft voice.

Max realizes there has been a break in the conversation; Connie has gone over to talk to Al about something, and Jack has disappeared inside, probably to help her partner. Max also realized her hand has clenched into her partner’s butt. She nods and relaxes her fingers. “I’m fine.”

Sam smiles and gently gives her a kiss. Max tilts her head down and kisses her back, losing herself in it for a moment.

Rebecca clears her throat awkwardly.

Max pulls away, her face burning. “Sorry, Becca.”

“Is she giving you a hard time for kissin’ your girl?” Connie asks from over by the grill. “Leave her be, Becca.”

Rebecca rolls her eyes.

The rest of the afternoon, and early evening, goes by fast. When Jamie shows up with Erika in tow, they both get along famously with Sam. Andrea is, of course, perfectly lovely to Sam with her Southern charm. Even Al, with all her gruff indifference, seems to like the prosecutor.

It’s all going far better than Max could have ever hoped. As it starts to get dark, Jack makes a fire in the fire pit, and they all sit around roasting leftover hot dogs and making s’mores. Max snuggles into Sam’s side and rests her head on her shoulder. The rest of the butches rib her, but it’s gentle, and Sam shoots back a few clever quips that have them all laughing—even Rebecca manages a smirk.

Max realizes, as Sam gently rubs her side while Jamie tells some wild story from work, that her fears were unfounded. Everyone has been welcoming and friendly to Sam and, by some extension, her. She has traded barbs with Rebecca, but that’s just what they do. It’s familiar and not familiar territory all at the same time. She is not used to feeling included.

“Baby, you look tired,” Sam says as they walk back to her car to go home. It’s approaches midnight. “You want me to drive?”

“Mmm, okay.”

Max hands over her keys then slides into the passenger seat. She closes her eyes as Sam carefully pulls away from the curb and starts off down the road. Normally she would feel anxious with someone else at the wheel, but she has come to the conclusion that with Sam at her side, she feels safe. Comfortable. She has someone to cede control of situations to.

Her anxiety likes that. Max likes that.

“Sam?” the pastor asks softly, without opening her eyes.

“Max,” Sam responds with her usual warmth, not taking her eyes off the road.

“I love you.”

Silence for a second, then she feels Sam’s hand on her thigh. The prosecutor rubs there for a second, then squeezes gently. “Love you, too, baby.”

-/-

The rest of the summer goes fantastically. Max falls, if possible, even more in love with Sam than before.

Sam lets Max snuggle with her as she watches TV, carding her fingers through Max’s hair as she watches whatever cheap reality drama it is unfold on screen. Sam has a weakness for reality TV and uses it to destress after work. Max doesn’t mind; she simply reads while Sam watches, her head in her partner’s lap occasionally interjecting when something ridiculous happens (because something _always_ ridiculous happens on Survivor).

Max relishes the way Sam sucks on her teeth fondly at her commentary, and how she includes her in everything. Max gets to help Sam apply her bleach job and keep the lines shaved into her hair sharp looking. In return Sam teaches Max how to apply mud masks, and they spend one evening a week together mixing and wearing them together. Max isn’t quite sure if they help her all that much, but she enjoys spending time with Sam, and her partner does look cute with the clay on her face.

Sam does not go with Max for rides, but encourages her to keep up with her hobby. It’s a little bit easier, now, going out with the Dykes—she still wears her tight pants, but sometimes she forgoes the clerical collar. Rides without the little white band are tough, but she gets through them. When she comes home, Sam is ready to cuddle her and take her to bed.

Despite Max’s progress, she keeps going to therapy. She is not certain there’s much change, but people keep commenting on how healthy she looks. How stress free. Like she’s been unburdened by life’s worries. (She wishes—they’ve just gotten easier to deal with since she started therapy.)

Maybe she was hiding it worse than she thought.

Despite the fact it appears her façade was all for naught, life seems to be looking up. She has a girlfriend who loves her and loves her dogs. She’s making amends with her past. She’s gaining the courage and strength she needs, little by little, to live authentically. She’s doing okay.

And then the Towers fall.


	7. Part 7

Max has just pulled into the parking lot at Massachusetts General when the first plane hits the North Tower of the World Trade Center. She misses the first reports by mere minutes; it is only when she gets upstairs to start her rounds with the dogs that she sees the news on the TV in one of the kids rooms.

It is good that FIli, Kili, and Samwise are there because otherwise everyone would be more of a wreck than they are already. There’s too much demand for the dogs, and people crowd into the room she is in to see them, so the nurses eventually just set Max up in one of the lounges at the end of the hall and let mobile patients comes to them.

Max stares out the window and feels sick. She feels paralyzed. At some point the TVs were just turned off, because it might distress the kids, but the affects have already set in among the adults. Max is not the only one pale and drawn in the longue.

“Miss Kushing?” One of the nurses asks tentatively. “You have a call.”

Max blinks past her fog in shock. No one ever calls her at the hospital. Most don’t even she works at the hospital. “Who is it?”

“Someone from your church? Sam Fitzgerald…?”

Max’s stomach lurches. Her church. Sam.

“Do you want to take the call?”

“I—yeah. Yeah I’ll take it.” She gets up, leaving the dogs with the small crowd that has formed around them, even though she’s really not supposed to, and gets up to go over to the nurse’s station. Without taking her eyes off the dogs she cradles the receiver under her ear. “This is Max.”

 _“Hey, baby,”_ Sam says gently, and hearing her voice gives Max a profound sense of relief that she was not expecting. _“You’ve heard the news?”_

“Uh huh…”

_“How are you doing?”_

“I’m…” Max gestures aimlessly despite the fact Sam can’t see it. How does one even begin to say how they feel when the world feels like it is on the brink of collapse and there are more than likely thousands of people dead? “It’s hard. I’m not anxious, though.”

Sam makes a soft noise on the other end of the line. _“Okay. Peter called me because he couldn’t get in contact with you. Tonight at six they’ve decided they are going to do a prayer service at the church. With candles and such.”_

That sounds like a very Peter thing to have set up. Probably appropriate. Max should have thought of the church, how it should respond to this, but the only thing she had been focused on was herself. “They want me to be there?”

_“You should probably be there, yes.”_

Max runs a hand over her face. All she wants to do is go home and cuddle her dogs and her girlfriend and put on a record and forget the world. But she is a pastor, and she has a job to do. More than ever, she has a job to do. Her voice is small as she asks, “Can you meet me there?”

_“Uh huh. I was planning on going anyway and then Peter called me.”_

Max’s brow knits in momentary confusion. “Peter knows your work number?”

_“We got let go early. I’m calling you from home.”_

“Oh. Okay.” Max scrubs her hand over her face again. “At six you said?”

_“Yes.”_

“Can you drop by my place and pick up my shirt and collar? I took them home to clean.”

_“Of course, baby.”_

“Okay. I’ll meet you in the parking lot? I’m going to be coming straight from the hospital with the dogs.”

 _“Do they need food?”_ Sam asks immediately.

“I’ve got food and bowls in the office.”

_“Alright. I’ll bring something for you to eat, though.”_

Max grimaces. She is not even sure if she is going to be able _to_ eat. Sam doesn’t need to know that, though, at least not right now. “Okay. Thank you.”

_“Drive safe, baby. I’ll see you soon.”_

.

.

.

She does indeed drive straight from Massachusetts General to her church. The streets are desolate and she makes it in record time. She pulls into her special pastor’s only parking space and Sam is waiting with her shirt on a hanger and a brown paper baggy of something.

Max gets out of the car and tugs Sam into a hug before she can even say hello. Sam gently sets the contents of her hands on the hood of the car and wraps her arms around her. Max squeezes her tightly and tucks her face into her neck, inhaling the smell of her musky floral cologne. Sam squeezes her back and brings a hand up to cup the back of her head.

After a solid minute or two of holding each other in the parking lot Max lets out a soft, shuddering sigh and squeezes her again. “I love you…”

“I love you, too, baby,” Sam says softly, and kisses her cheek gently. “I brought you a chicken parm melt with avocado and a hot chocolate.”

Her two favorites. What would she do without Sam?

“Thank you.”

“Let’s get the guys inside and then you can change and eat,” the prosecutor says firmly. “It’s going to be a long night.”

Max nods somberly and goes to take the dogs out of the car.

-/-

The next month and a half is a blur. It comes out, slowly, that there were members of the community on those planes, in those buildings, on the ground saving lives. Mark Bingham’s name takes the headlines, but there are others. A nauseating amount of others. Max is most struck by the death of Father Mychal Judge, the openly gay Catholic chaplain who had been the first victim from the attacks.

She can’t stop thinking about how that might had been her. Could have been her. Might still be her one day.

The church, her church, takes up a collection for the partners of the victims.

Max and Sam move in together in November. Max feels wrong going apartment shopping with her partner when there are others who are not as fortunate.

It’s a cute little two bedroom in South Boston, spacious for the price and with more than enough wall space for all of Max’s books. Jack, Al, Connie, and Jamie, along with a few of Sam’s friends, all help move them in the first weekend of November. (Rebecca has some sort of conference, but sends her regards.) The Dykes contingent stays after they take the rental truck back to help put together furniture. 

When they all finally go home Max attempts to shake off the anxious energy caused by all-day human interaction by unpacking her books. She gets most of them of the shelves, thinking the whole time about how much of a coward she is. How one day, if she were to die suddenly, nobody would know her gender identity besides Sam and Ria.

Coming out as genderqueer to anybody is still a terrifying prospect, but that sobering little fact puts it into perspective.

She isn’t getting any younger.

-/-

Normally she goes home for Thanksgiving, but not this year. She makes her excuses to her family and promises to go down to Baltimore for Christmas.

When Jack and Andrea find out she is staying home, they invite her and Sam over for their celebrations. Sam thinks they should go—Max is not so sure. Eventually, she gives in.

She is not expecting Connie and Rebecca to be there.

“Jack didn’t say they were coming,” Max hisses as they pull up and she spots Rebecca’s car out front. “I thought they were going down to Virginia.”

She is already nauseous at the idea of extended social interaction—but the fact that Connie and Rebecca will be there sends her anxiety off the scales. She had prepared herself to deal with Jack and Al’s level of butchness, but not Connie’s, and not with them all together. And, of course, she had no expectation of having to deal with Rebecca’s special brand of authority.

Fuck. She doesn’t know if she can deal with it. She presses her head back into the headrest and closes her eyes, taking a depth breath. Her car smells like nut loaf and scalloped potatoes. She hopes having anxiety attacks outside of Jack’s house is not going to be a regular occurrence.

Sam reaches over and takes her hand. “Max…”

“I know,” Max whines softly, swallowing past the anxious lump in her throat. “It’s not—I’m trying—”

“I know you are, baby,” her partner murmurs soothingly, rubbing her thumb in calming circles on her skin. “You weren’t expecting it. You’re processing. And that’s okay.”

Max nods, takes another deep breath to fight off the anxiety as is crawls up her spine and settles nauseatingly at the nape of her neck. “It’s okay. I’m okay. They like you, we know this.”

“Is this about them liking me, or your anxiety around being not butch enough?”

The pastor is quiet for a minute. “Both.” She pauses again, looking out the window at the grey sky. “Worse-case scenario is…they become too overwhelming for me and I have to step out.”

“And best?”

“The night goes well and we both have a good time. Middle of the road is that we have a good time, but some of it makes me anxious and you have to drive home.”

Sam smiles and raises Max’s hand up to kiss her palm. “I’ll drive us home regardless, I think.”

Max shoots her a grateful look.

“Now, c’mon, let’s get out of this car. They’re expecting us.”

Max sighs. “Okay.”

They get out and grabs the potluck items, then head from the front door. Max is holding both of the items, so Sam knocks on the door. Jack answers in an embroidered Thanksgiving vest and a giant smile.

“Hey! Thanks for coming. C’mon in.” She holds the door wide for them. “Can I help ya out with that, Max?”

“No, I’ve got it.”

“M’kay. We’re all in back.”

Max starts back for the kitchen, intent of relieving herself of the food. In the kitchen, Andrea, Connie, and Rebecca are working to get dinner ready; Connie, who is nearest to the door, greets Max cheerfully as she comes in.

Max greets her weakly and sets the pan of potatoes and the foil-wrapped nut loaf on the counter. “I thought you were going down to Virginia?”

“We were, but the roads are a nightmare,” Connie says as she reaches into the drawer under the oven to pull out a pan for the nut loaf. “Nobody wants to fly and Becca and I both have to work Monday. No point in going down there for a day just to turn right back around Saturday to beat the traffic.”

“Ah.” That makes sense, at least. She can’t fault them for that. 9/11, as it is being known now, has everything royally fucked to hell.

“We only decided on Monday,” Connie says, looking sheepish. “Jack was great and said we could come over last minute.”

“The more the merrier,” Jack scoots in past Sam, past Max, past Rebecca, past Andrea (whom she gives a peck on the lips as she goes by), then opens the fridge and pulls out two beers for Sam and Max. She passes them over to them. “Make yourselves at home.”

“Is there anything we can do to help?” Sam asks, setting the bottle of wine she brought on the counter. Rebecca eyes it and picks it up to look at the label critically.

“Is it up to your exacting standards, Becca?” Al asks from the kitchen table where she is lounging with a beer of her own.

Rebecca snorts and sets the wine down. “It will do.”

“What are you, a wine connoisseur?” Sam asks, half-defensively.

Connie, Max, and Al all burst into uproarious laughter.

“You have much to learn,” Max says in a rather good impersonation of Yoda, then at the look on Sam’s face she wilts. “She’s Italian. It goes without saying.”

“Well why didn’t you say so?” Sam asks in an exasperated, but fond, huff. She turns to Rebecca and asks, “What would you have preferred?”

“Certainly not anything American,” Rebecca replies with a condescending grimace. “ _Château Cheval Blanc_  at the very least. Preferably? _Lacryma Christi del Vesuvio,_ _Per’e Palummo,_ or _Aglianico Campania_.”

“Well aren’t you a high roller?”

Max leaves Sam and Rebecca to it and drifts over to the couch where Jamie and Erika are snuggled. Erika’s teeth shine white against her dark skin as she listens to the conversation in the connecting kitchen. Max twists her bottle top off and pulls up a chair.

“Good to see you two. I thought you’d be working for sure, Jame.”

The paramedic grins lazily. “Yeah, I thought so, too, but they let me have it because I worked Halloween.”

Max grimaces at the very thought.

Jamie laughs. “That’s about it, yeah. I have to work Christmas and I’m technically I’m on call in case they need me tonight, but for right now…I’m here.”

“Well, I brought nut loaf and potatoes so you and Sam have something to eat.”

Jamie’s smile is a soft one in her kind face. “Thanks, Max, you’re the best.”

Erika rubs her hand over Jamie’s chest gently. “Between that, the veggies, and the stuffed squash we brought you should be good to go.”

An hour or so later, Jamie and Sam were indeed, good to go, as were the rest of the group. Between the turkey, ham, nut loaf, and seven or eight side dishes, everyone had their choice of food. There was not room for all nine of them at the table, so they ate in the living room like at most Dykes parties.

After dinner, everyone sits with their partners, butch arms around femmes, except for Al who is ensconced Jack’s armchair like a king. Andrea lets Touchdown out of the bathroom, from where she has been confined to save the dinner from cat maltreatment. The fluffy grey creature does the rounds of the room to greet everyone; Max tickles her under the chin obligingly when she comes by. Eventually Touchdown settles on Jack’s lap with only minimal protesting from the butch in question. (She swears up and down she is _not a cat person_ and that Touchdown, despite her name, is _Andrea’s cat_ , but it’s the biggest worst kept secret in the Dykes on Bikes Boston chapter that Jack is a giant softie and an even bigger schmuck when it comes to cats.)

As Jamie and Erika help Andrea pass out dessert, Max leans into Sam on the couch and loops her arm around her partner. Sam smiles and kisses her temple. Max can’t believe how happy she is. Everything is going well. Jack and Andrea’s small house is filled with warmth and happiness and laughter. Even Al, who was grouchy on the best of days, smiles and jokes along with Jack and Connie, who provide the main chatter. It’s a far cry from the dark and scary world outside.

Eventually Rebecca untwines herself from Connie and starts to collect dishes. Max scrambles up to help. Andrea starts to stand as well, but Rebecca shoos her off. “You’ve done enough, Andrea, sit.”

“Becca and I can wash them,” Max says easily, collecting Jamie and Erika’s silverware and plates. “You sit with Jack and take a load off.”

“Aw, hell. Thanks, guys.”

Max smiles at her softly, then carries the stack of dishes she’s gotten to the kitchen. She sets them in the sink them pushes up the sleeves to her sweater. Rebecca comes in a moment later and sets her own stack in the sink.

“Thanks for volunteering me,” the engineer says dryly as she rolls up her sleeves.

Max winks at her before she can stop herself and she says, “You know I gotta have my alone time with you.”

Rebecca pulls a face. Max instantly berates herself and tries to make a peace offering. “You want to wash or dry, Becca?”

Rebecca sighs. “I’ll wash.”

“Okay, I’ll dry.” Max reaches for the dish cloth as Rebecca goes for the soap and sink scrubby. They wash and dry in Jack and Andrea’s double sink in silence, listening to the chatter and rambunctious laughter form the other room.

As they are halfway through the stack of dishes, Max realizes this is the first time they have done anything together. She has known Rebecca for almost thirty years. Thirty years.

_You should tell her._

The words are out before she can stop them. “Becca?”

Dark eyes glance over at her and she responds with a sharp, “What?”

“Can I…” She pauses, fighting with herself. If anybody will understand, surely it will be Rebecca. Rebecca has fought for the community since day one. She’s never heard transphobic remarks out of her mouth unlike some of the other lesbian separatists she has known over the years. Rebecca, out of all the people in this house besides Sam is probably the safest choice of people to come out to. Besides, Rebecca is a rock in Max’s turbulent ocean; steady, strong, ever present, aloof.

She definitely should tell Rebecca first, if she is going to tell anybody at all. And she’s been wanting to, for months, for ages. Ever since she told Sam the secret has clawed at her chest, waiting for release. She’s tired of hiding. She’s tired of lying.  

She does not want to die without people knowing the truth.

The pastor takes a steady breath to calm her racing heart. “Can I, uh…tell you something?”

Max watches Rebecca’s shoulders tense up. If she didn’t know any better she would say Rebecca was anxious. “What is it?”

“I’m…um…” _Just say it, Max._ “Do you know what genderqueer is?”

Rebecca does not pause in her dish washing. “I’m familiar.”

Max swallows past the lump in her throat. “I’m well…I’m…that.”

The engineer is silent for a long time.

Max’s anxiety kicks in to high gear. She starts to talk to relieve some of the pressure. “I’ve um…I’ve felt this way for a while and…I know it’s a new term but it feels like it is me and I just…can you…say something?”

“You’ve been a lesbian ever since I’ve known you,” Rebecca says slowly. Max notices she has stopped washing her plate. “A _butch_ lesbian.”

Max recognizes that tone. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. “Yeah but—it’s never, it’s never sat right, Becca. It’s never been…me.”

Rebecca’s mouth presses into a thin line. “Are there new pronouns and a new name to go along with this change in gender identity?”

 “What?” the pastor asks. “No. I’m not—I’m not transsexual—transgender—whatever. Rebecca, I’m genderqueer, it’s—it’s different.”

“Hardly,” Rebecca sniffs, not looking up from the plate. “And how exactly did you come about this decision?”

“I—one of the kids mentioned it to me. At church. And I was—after I did some research I—”

“Decided you wanted to run away from your middle-aged insecurities by becoming _genderqueer_?”

“Becca, I haven’t _become_ anything!” Max snaps, her voice rising. “I’ve always been this way! You’ve known me since—it’s been a long time. Have I changed?”

“No, you’ve always been a soft butch,” Rebecca says coolly. “That’s why I never dated you.”

“That’s—that’s out of line,” the pastor says, stung. She can feel tears forming in her eyes. Her throat starts to close up as her voice gets thick with emotion. “Us—our relationship has nothing to do with—”

“If you want to be transsexual, go ahead and be transsexual,” the older woman overrides, derision in every syllable. “I don’t care if you want to be a man, but I do care if you won’t do it properly. Stop with this wishy-washy middle ground and commit to something for once in your Goddamn life, Max. I can’t support your cowardice. Come back to me when you want to be a man, a proper man, and we can have this discussion again.”

Max listens to all of this in wide eyed horror. This is not how it was supposed to go. This was not how any of this was supposed to go. Rebecca was supposed to be _on her side._ This betrayal by one of her oldest acquaintances, oldest friends, cuts deep, so she responds the only way she knows how. “Fuck you!”

Rebecca snorts and rolls her eyes. “Still and always in your dreams, Max.”

Max drops the drying cloth in the rinse water and turns on her heel. She hears the noise of people getting up from the other room, drawn by their raised voices and her outburst, but she doesn’t care. She slams the front door behind her and walks into the November darkness.

She has no idea where she is going. It’s freezing cold and she doesn’t have her jacket but she doesn’t care. All she knows is that she _trusted_ Rebecca and she betrayed her. Just like her anxiety told her she would. A sob bubbles up from her chest and makes it past her lips. She’s somehow gotten out to her car; it’s locked. She falls against the side panel and sinks to the ground, well aware she is in the middle of the street and not caring. Maybe she will get hit by a car and die and finally be put out of her God forsaken misery. Maybe He will finally take pity on her miserable existence and fucking _end it_ so she can finally stop being anxious, paranoid mess.

The sobs start in excess then. She buries her face in her hands and lets the anxiety, the fear, the anguish of failure and rejection take over and she cries and cries and cries.

.

.

.

Sam finds her. Sam sinks to her knees and gathers her in her arms and holds her in the cold on the asphalt street. She rocks her and strokes her hair and murmurs softly until there are no more tears, just pained silence and tear-stained cheeks. Max coughs to try to clear her tight throat and ends up gagging on her own shame.

“I want to go home,” Max whimpers.

“We’ll go home, baby,” Sam whispers back, pressing a kiss to her clammy skin. “Let me go get the keys.”

“Okay.”

The prosecutor gently pulls away and goes back inside. Max hears murmuring, then some muffled shouting. Sam comes out of the door with their jackets over her arms and the car keys in her hand, stormy-faced. She wrenches the passenger side back door open and throws their coats in, then goes around to get in and start the car.

Max gets in quietly, numbly, and Sam pulls away from the curb before she even gets her seatbelt on. The drive home is dead silent.

Max can tell Sam is simmering from the way her mouth is set and the how tight her fingers are on the wheel. The pastor’s anxiety tells her Sam’s ire is because of her. She croaks out, “Are you mad?”

“Not at you.”

Sam’s words are clipped and controlled. She’s obviously furious.

Max looks out the window at the city as it goes by. “Oh…”

They get home. Sam parks the car and coaxes her out of it and into the elevator. The dogs greet them excitedly when they get home; Sam distracts them with dinner, then locks the door and hangs up the keys.

Max stands, listless, in the middle of the room. She’s shut down, essentially a walking shell. Sam’s heart breaks.

“Come here, baby,” she says softly, and guides her partner to bed. Sam kicks off her shoes and tugs Max in. Max cuddles into her, clinging to her like a child. The pastor starts to cry again.

Sam holds her close and rubs her back, kisses her hair and face. The prosecutor lets her lover cry herself into exhaustion and finally unconsciousness. Sam falls asleep with Max tucked into her chest, the front of her shirt soaked with her partner’s tears. 


	8. Part 8

Sam calls Ria the next morning and leaves a message to update her on what happened. With the holiday weekend she can’t expecting anything much to come of it until Monday, but it’s the best she can do. Max sleeps most of the day, curled up into a little ball in their bed with the dogs on constant cuddle duty. Sam tries to stay, but her partner wants to be alone.

She kisses her temple and goes to do on case work in the living room. Max shuffles out a little past five wrapped in their comforter; Sam takes one look at her and decides to order pizza.

“Tell me how you’re feeling right now, baby,” the prosecutor says softly, after the pizza is ordered and Max has curled against her on the couch, still wrapped in her comforter cocoon.

“It hurts.”

“I know.” Sam cards her fingers through the top of Max’s hair gently. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

“It’s not your fault,” the pastor mumbles. “It’s her fault for being a bitch.”

Sam is so startled by the uncharacteristic use of language from Max that she laughs. Max doesn’t smile, just wraps the comforter around herself tighter. Sam returns her fingers to her hair. “I called Ria.”

“I heard.”

“I don’t think she’ll call back until Monday, but we don’t know.”

Max nods. Sam gently traces the shell of Max’s ear with her fingers, then returns to stroking. The dogs join them up on the sofa and Max sighs softly, sadly. Brokenly, Sam realizes.

“Max?”

“Sam,” the pastor replies almost so quietly it goes unheard.

“Would you like my opinion, or would you like me to stay quiet?”

Max shrugs.

Sam sighs and is quiet for a long time. Finally she speaks. “I know you’ve known Rebecca forever. I know that…I know that her opinion meant a lot to you, even if you don’t always realize it. That being said…her backwards opinion on your gender identity is not the be all, end all opinion in your life. There are going to be others who love you for you, up to and including your genderqueer identity. And those like Rebecca Gallaro who don’t want to let your whole, authentic self into their lives? The ones who see you as something to be categorized or shaped for their own gain? Fuck them. Just fuck them. You—we—neither of us need them in our lives.”

Max doesn’t reply. Fili lets out a low dog groan and the pastor instinctively reaches down to stroke his head. After a while, when Fili is calm, Max’s fingers still. “What if she was right though? What if I am just…indecisive? What if I’m just…a trans man but am...”

She peters off and Sam decides in that moment she is going to kill Rebecca Gallaro. She is going to kill her and get her friends in CSI to help her cover it up. “Is that what she said to you?”

Max nods.

“Have you ever _wanted_ to be a man?”

A head shake.

“But you’ve felt uncomfortable with being a woman?”

Another nod.

“Then I think that settles it. Rebecca doesn’t know what she’s talking about. You are the one who has the best grasp of your gender identity.”

The pastor smiles sadly. Sam presses another kiss in what seems like an endless stream of them to her partner’s hair and hopes beyond hope that she and Ria can repair the damage this has caused Max.

-/-

The next day, Saturday, is a bit better. Sam gets Max moving before ten, cajoling her out of bed with the idea of a joint shower and cuddling afterwards. She convinces her to wear her favorite outfit—charcoal grey slacks and sweater over her favorite grey striped tie and crispest white shirt. It is not a big move, but it seems to help Max feel a bit like herself. She feels up to taking the dogs for a walk, although the walk is quiet and not filled with their usual quiet banter and conversation.

It’s just as they are coming back in that the phone rings. Sam grabs it off the hook and tucks it under her ear. “Sam Fitzgerald speaking.”

_“Sam? It’s Connie Williams.”_

Sam stops in the middle of hanging up her keys. She looks over at her partner, who is sliding off her shoes by the door. Her reply into the receiver is icy. “What can I do for you?”

_“I was hoping to talk with Max.”_

“I think you and your partner have done enough damage.”

 _“Sam, wait,”_ Connie says, and the desperation in her voice is enough to give Sam pause. _“I don’t—what Rebecca did was…it was awful. I’m as furious with her as you probably are, and I can’t imagine how Max is feeling right now. Please, I want to make sure she’s okay.”_

She sounds genuine, and Sam has never known the big butch to be anything but. According to Max there is not a single malicious bone in Connie’s body. Sam sighs. _“One second, let me ask her.”_ She covers the mouthpiece and looks at Max, who is eyeing her warily. The pastor has obviously heard every word from their end. “Baby, it’s Connie. She wants to talk with you…check in with you? Do you want to talk with her?”

“…Check in with me?”

Sam nods.

Max hesitates, then despite herself shuffles over and takes the phone. “This is Max.”

 _“Hey,”_ Connie says breathlessly, almost nervously. _“How are you doing, Max?”_

“Fantastically,” the pastor says bitterly. “Really great, Wills. Your partner told me in no uncertain terms that my gender identity was invalid and then told me I was a coward for not becoming the man I never wanted to be.”

Connie sighs on the other end in a burst of static. _“I know, and I’m sorry. Rebecca, she’s_ —” There’s a long pause on the other end and Connie sighs again. _“She’s wrong, and she’s not important right now. I can’t necessarily say I understand, but it’s mostly because I don’t know anything about… genderqueerness.”_

Max smiles a bit despite herself.

_“I tried to do some research yesterday but didn’t find a lot.”_

“It’s a fairly new term,” Max says quickly, because she can’t help it.

“ _I know,”_ Connie says gently. _“I know I’m probably not exactly in your good graces right now but…would it be possible if I came over and talked with about it with you?”_

The pastor hesitates. “I…” Then she remembers the quote from Ephesians that she clung to like a life raft after her parents cast her out.

_Get rid of all bitterness, rage and anger, brawling and slander, along with every form of malice. Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you._

The cross on her chest weighs heavy for a moment. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, rolling her neck out. Then she exhales and finds herself saying, “Sure thing, Wills. I’m…I’m available for the rest of the weekend.”

 _“I can come over in about an hour?”_ Connie asks.

“That’s fine.”

 _“Thank you,”_ the butch on the other end sounds grateful. _“You still at the same place?”_

“Uh huh. Number 504. Buzz us and we’ll let you in.”

_“Okay, see you soon.”_

Max nods, mostly to herself, and hangs up the receiver. Sam is watching her from the hall with an unreadable expression. The pastor swallows. “Connie is coming over in about an hour.”

“Is she?”

“Uh huh.” Max goes over to her and gently touches her partner’s hip. “I have to…if I didn’t...she is not Rebecca and does not deserve the consequences of her sins.”

Sam’s eyes are sad. She reaches up and fusses with Max’s tie. “I don’t forgive so easily.”

“I’m not asking you to forgive her.”

The prosecutor sighs and leans in to give her a gentle kiss. Max kisses her back and rests their foreheads together after they part.

“I love you, Sam.”

“I love you, too, Max.”

.

.

.

An hour and a half later, the buzzer rings, and Sam lets Connie up. The big butch is carrying her motorcycle helmet in her hand as she comes through the door. She looks around in interest; the last time she was here, there was nothing on the walls and everything was in boxes scattered across the floor.

“Wow, you’ve really made this place a home.”

Max manages a weak smile and stands from her chair. The dogs have been put in the bedroom so she is free to go over and shake Connie’s hand. The big woman looks hurt but take it; her grip is softer than usual.

“Thanks for coming.”

Connie smiles sadly and puts her keys and gloves in her helmet. Sam makes herself scarce in the office, leaving the two of them alone.

Max shuffles anxiously. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Water’d be great.”

The pastor nods and heads into the kitchen. “Feel free to take a seat.” Connie does while Max gets two glasses of water. She brings them over and sets them down on coasters so they don’t stain the light wood of her coffee table.

Connie reaches for hers and takes a sip. “I…don’t really know where to begin, Max.”

“I—me either,” the other admits. “This is…new for both of us.”

Connie chuckles and sets her water down. “I have…some questions? If that’s okay?”

Max nods. “I’ll try to answer them.”

Connie dips her head. “How long have you…how long have you felt _genderqueer_?”

The corner of Max’s lips tugs up. “That’s…difficult to explain. I didn’t know it was a term until a few years ago. But I’ve always felt…it’s been for as long as I can remember, really. There wasn’t…there wasn’t ever really a word for it until recently, you know? Butch was the closest I got but I’m not…there are…associations. Baggage. Stuff that I’ve never felt comfortable with.”

Connie frowns. “How so?”

So Max tells her. Max tells her all about not feeling butch enough. How she tried to compensate and the anxiety is caused her. How finding the word genderqueer finally helped her understand herself, helped her feel free. The difference between gender, and sex, and the thin sliver that Max walks in between the binary that makes her feel most comfortable.

“It’s not that I don’t feel…I don’t know that I feel dysphoria, I just don’t like being ‘a woman’,” Max says, tugging at the air with air quotes. “I never have been. That’s what was great about butch but…like we talked about. The discomfort, the inadequacy… I’m still comfortable with my body, with my pronouns, but the idea of woman-ness is just…it doesn’t agree with me. I still like dressing in masculine clothes and presenting like a butch, but there’s more to it.”

Connie nods. “I get it.” She pauses. “Well, I don’t, but I’m trying.”

The pastor smiles softly.

The biker leans forward. “Have any of us ever made you uncomfortable?”

Max hedges, but decides to tell the truth. “Yes. So many times. Through no fault of your own it’s just—” She gestures at Connie. “You and Jack and Al…you’re all so good at being butch.”

“Probably because you were never meant to be butch and we were.”

A chuckle makes its way past Max’s lips. “Yeah. So I felt…group rides are hard, Wills. Because I always felt the pressure to be tougher, cooler…butcher. I always felt like an imposter, and my anxiety was always telling me that my days were numbered, and that you’d kick me out when you found out the truth.”

Connie’s expression softened. “Max, you’re our friend. We’d never kick you out.”

The pastor sighs bitterly. “Didn’t stop Rebecca.”

Connie sighs, too, this one more resigned then Max’s. She leans back on the couch and stares at the ceiling as if looking for the answers to reply. Finally, she finds the words. “Rebecca is… stubborn. She thinks things in the world should work a certain way, usually how she thinks they should. She’s very ingrained in her doctrine. It’s not an excuse, it’s just the way she is. It can make her a real asshole sometimes.”

Max can’t help it—she smiles.

“You’ve known her for longer than me,” Connie adds. “You know how she gets.”

Max sighs again. “You would think after all this time she would recognize that things change. Isn’t that the whole point of your guys’ field? New discoveries?”

Connie laughs. “Yes, it is. But sometimes she forgets that there is more to life beyond the science. She has to have her world view broken before she can change it. You did that the other night. _Genderqueer_ stopped being something on the fringes that she could ignore or be misinformed on and started being a reality that she had to pay attention to. She’s currently in the process of reshifting.”

“Oh.”

“It doesn’t excuse what she said to you,” Connie clarifies. “She and I, we—had an extremely long discussion about it that night which ended up in me sleeping in the guest bedroom.”

“You guys fought,” Max says with dawning realization.

“Are still fighting, if you want to know the truth.” The butch ran a hand through her hair.

Rebecca and Connie _never_ fight, and are famous in their friend circle for it. Max is stunned.

Connie continues on. “She’s been in the lab all day, and most of yesterday, too. I didn’t see her last night. I know she came back because there was leftover coffee in the pot this morning and dishes in the sink but she was back out before I woke up, so she must have slept upstairs.”

“Oh.”

“She’s going to have to sulk on campus for a bit,” Connie says with a sigh. “Think about it as she distracts herself with whatever project her team is working on. You know her, she’s got a huge amount of pride that she’s going to have to choke down. I know it doesn’t—it didn’t sound like it the other night, Max, but she _does_ care about you.”

“Funny way of showing it.”

“I know,” Connie murmurs. “I’m still angry with her, too. After the way she behaved you have every right to cut her out of your life and never speak to her again. But when she calls—because she will, she will call you to apologize eventually—give her a chance to make it up to you.”

“We’ll see.”

“Fair enough.” There’s a pause. “You mentioned you’re getting help? Do you mean therapy?”

Max nods. “Yes. I’ve been in therapy for almost a year.”

Connie smiles. “That’s great. I’m glad you’re getting help.”

“Thanks.”

“If there’s…anything I can do. That the Dykes can do. You say the word, okay?”

The pastor feels a sudden rush of affection for the big butch. She and Connie had never been particularly close—friendly, yes, but not close—but after this whole exchange she feels a lot better about knowing her. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

“Could…” Max sighs and runs a hand through her hair. “You can tell other people. About my identity.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” A pause. “After what happened with Rebecca I don’t think it can get worse, right?”

Connie chuckles.

“It will make it easier for me,” Max confesses. “It’s…it’s all a lot to hold in. Telling people is exhausting. I’m not really changing, I’m still just Max, I’m just…”

“You want people to see you as genderqueer, not as butch.” Max nods. “I get it. I’ll go over and update Jack and Al after we’re done here.”

The pastor lets out a breath she was not aware she was holding. Not having to come out to all the Dykes individually had not been something she had known she was dreading until that very moment. Now, the tension bleeds out of her shoulders at the thought of someone else besides herself taking up the mantle. “Thank you, Connie….thanks for coming over.”

“Anytime.” Connie smiles and shifts forward, picking up her empty cup and moves to take it over to the sink. “I should probably get going. But before I do…do you have anything that I could leave lying around for Rebecca to find? Stuff about genderqueer identity?”

“Oh. Uh—yeah. Give me one sec.” Max stands as well and goes into the office. Sam looks up from the computer with a concerned expression. “It’s okay, I’m just grabbing something for Connie.”

Sam nods.

Max goes to one of the shelves and searches through her saved magazines until she finds the one she wants. She takes it, along with a zine, back out. Connie has pulled her jacket and gloves back on and is holding her helmet and keys.

“Here.” Max holds the two documents out to her. “I’ll want them back but…these two are a good start.”

Connie takes them and looks them over with an approving nod. “Thank you, Max, truly.”

“No problem.”

Connie smiles and claps her on the shoulder. “I’ll see you soon, yeah?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll see you soon.”

-/-

Max feels good enough about herself to go to church the next day. News of her identity has not yet reached her congregation—she feels half blessed, half cursed. She still has to fake it here, but she does not have to go through the process of coming out to them.

She is not the Thanksgiving Sunday speaker, one of the other pastors is. That other pastor talks about hope and love and found family, and Max holds onto Sam’s hand tightly in the pew as they listen.

When she gets home there are a couple of messages on her answering machine. All from Dykes, offering their support and love. None of them are from Rebecca.

“You can’t wait around for her to call,” Sam tells her sternly over the next week as she catches Max staring at the phone. “If she wants to call and apologize, she will.”

Max sighs. “I know.”

To cope with it, Max does what she always has done in times of stress—she turns back to the Bible. She has several, but her favorite is the one she bought in college from the bookstore. It was used when she bought it, and she has read it so many times the pages are full of highlights that sometimes it is almost illegible. It still brings her great comfort, though, to sit down and read through it, to see the progression of her thoughts over the years. She can tracks pencil marks, pen colors, and highlighter marks across the pages to what meant most to her since she was in her twenties.

This time she finds herself drawn to the marks she made when she was in her late thirties, when she had come out to her parents at the height of the AIDS crisis and found herself out on the streets. The scribbles in red mark a journey of pain, sorrow, loss, and forgiveness that is barely a decade old, but feel extraordinarily fresh considering the circumstances.

**_Hebrews 10:_ ** _**17**  Then he adds: “Their sins and lawless acts I will remember no more.”_

**_Micah 7:_ ** **_18_ ** _Who is a God like you, who pardons sin and forgives the transgression of the remnant of his inheritance? You do not stay angry forever but delight to show mercy.  **19**  You will again have compassion on us; you will tread our sins underfoot and hurl all our iniquities into the depths of the sea._

Eventually she stops reading the others and just looks for the passages marked in red. Her fingers trail over the letters, mouth sounding them out. Eventually settling over one that gives her pause.

**_Isaiah 43: 25_ ** _“I, even I, am he who blots out your transgressions, for my own sake, and remembers your sins no more.  **26**  Review the past for me, let us argue the matter together; state the case for your innocence._

She stares at it for a second, then scrambles up and grabs her therapy journal and fountain pen. She opens it to the page she last stopped on and scribbles the passage out. The Bible slides off her lap as she writes, pouring her thoughts and emotions out on the page.

Afterwards, she has filled out nearly two and a half pages and her fingers are a bit stained from where they brushed the ink; she had been writing so fast that she didn’t let some of it dry for long enough before touching it. The pastor sinks back into her couch and rubs her face, laughing softly.

Even if Rebecca does not ever call her, Max decides in that moment, she will forgive her. She will forgive her, and she will become a stronger person because of it. She will become closer to God and her congregation and those who love her, and she will leave Rebecca Gallaro behind.


	9. Part 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rebecca learns to swallow her pride and apologize, while Max learns the affects her anxiety has on others.

The phone rings on Saturday evening and Max picks it up without thinking. She’s about to go out with Sam to walk the dogs, and she grabs it off the wall as Sam is putting on her shoes.

“Max Kushing speaking.”

_“Max.”_

The pastor recognizes her voice instantly. How could she not? “R-Rebecca.”

Sam looks up from where she’s balancing on the door. There’s a pause on the other end of the line as Rebecca hesitates.

_“…Yes. Can we talk?”_

“Uh, I’m about to take the dogs out, so not right now,” Max says, looking over at Sam, who is watching intently.

_“I see. When is a convenient time for you?”_

As if they were discussing the planning of a business meeting.

“I—tomorrow, after church?” Max pauses. “We should have this conversation in person.”

 _“I agree,”_ Rebecca says primly. _“Tomorrow, one o’clock, at the townhouse? It is nearby your church, is it not?”_

“That’s fine,” Max finds herself agreeing. She is having a completely out of body experience about the whole thing. “I’ll…see you tomorrow.”

Rebecca makes a noise of affirmation, and then hangs up the phone. Max stares at the receiver for a second, then hangs it back up.

.

.

.

The next afternoon finds her outside Rebecca and Connie’s townhouse. She had dropped Sam off at home then come over, despite Sam offering to drive her.

She stands outside the front door in the cold for a long time before knocking. There’s a long pause before she hears footsteps and the door opens. Connie is standing on the other side.

“Hey, Max. Becca is in the kitchen. C’mon in.”

Max smiles tightly at her and steps inside, taking off her coat and slipping off her shoes.

Connie leans on the wall as Max puts her coat in the closet. “I’m going to be down in the basement to give you guys some privacy. Holler if you need me, mkay?”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t let me forget to get you your magazines before you go.”

The pastor nods. Connie smiles and squeezes Max’s shoulder, then disappears down the hallway. Max follows after her a few moments, and rounds the corner just in time to see Connie disappear into the basement. She takes a deep breath and steps into the kitchen.

Rebecca is sitting at the kitchen table; her hair is wilder than usual and her make up is almost nonexistent, a rarity for her. Her reading glasses are on, and she’s staring at a notebook on the table, a few of her fingers pressed to her temple as she thinks on whatever she is contemplating. Despite the early hour of the day, there is a mostly empty martini glass on the desk beside her.

Max knocks gently on the counter to get her attention. “Um. Hey.”

Rebecca looks up. “Max.”

Max dips her head in acknowledgement.

The engineer caps her pen and flips her notebook closed. “Please…come in.”

Max does. She comes over to the table and draws up a seat at the table by Rebecca. The older woman looks uncharacteristically nervous.

“I…” Rebecca starts after a moment, then stops. Regroups. Pushes her glasses into her hair and tries again. “I believe apologies are in order. Sincere ones.”

“Yeah,” Max replies carefully, drawing up all of her strength and courage to look Rebecca in the eyes. “That’s a good start.”

“I was…mistaken,” Rebecca says after a moment. “I spoke from a place of misinformation and privilege and, quite honestly, some bigotry.”

Max tilts her head to acknowledge the statement.

The engineer across from her sighs. “I have known you a long time, Max. And over all those years, I’ve known you to be indecisive, cocky, flirtatious…”

“That’s okay, you’ve always been a bit of an arrogant, acerbic bitch.”

Rebecca blinks, then closes her eyes briefly and accepts the hit. Max sees, in that brief moment, the thirty some years since they first met in her features. She looks old.

The engineer’s eyes open and she looks Max dead in the eyes. “Might I be frank with you, Max?”

“Please.”

“You make me anxious.”

Max had not been expecting that. She feels, for a second, her own anxiety swell and threaten to engulf her. She was always so focused on her own anxiety that she forgot to take into consider how her behavior affects other. She takes a deep breath in through her nose to quell the sudden feelings. “Oh?”

“Yes.” Rebecca glances off towards the basement door. “Connie and I discussed…very briefly the conversation you had. But it sounded as if this might be a mutual feeling.”

The pastor nods.

“I have known for a long time that there was more to you than meets the eye,” the older woman continues. “You’ve always had two sides, and until recently I was only able to see the one that irritated me. I never know what to expect from which, which causes me to constantly have my guard up around you. This…façade you’ve been putting on, it has grated on my nerves since we met. The other night, you…I believed it was a part of that, which is one of the reasons I snapped at you. Although I was not aware, at the time, the extent your façade has gone over the years.”

She pauses, sighs. “That being said, my frustrations with your teasing and your unpredictable behavior are not an excuse for the way I acted. I apologize for what I said. I was wrong.”

Max nods again and puts her hands on the table, interlaces her fingers to keep herself from fidgeting with them in her lap. “I accept your apology, Rebecca…and I believe I should extend one as well. I was not aware that our banter was unappreciated.”

“Thank you.”

“We’ve always carried on like this, ever since we met,” Max says softly.

The corner of Rebecca’s mouth ticks up slightly. “Yes, we have.”

“I thought that since it was mutual, we both enjoyed it. If I had known I was making you uncomfortable, anxious, I would have stopped immediately.”

The engineer nods, then glances at the basement door again. “Connie said to me the other night that we both have armor we put on to hide our insecurities…our sensitivities. You have butch. I have academia.”

 _“Doctor_ Rebecca Gallaro.”

Rebecca nods. “Just so.”

“My…façade as you put it. Being butch.” Max runs a hand through her hair and sighs. “It’s toxic for me, always trying to be something I never have been. Now I realize it is toxic for others, too.”

Rebecca nods again.

“I’m working with my therapist to kick some of the bad habits,” the pastor explains, “to work through to what makes me feel anxious and inadequate. If I can tackle those instead of trying to compensate by being what I _think_ I should be instead of what I want to be or am…do you understand?”

“Completely.”

Max smiles softly.  “It’s going to be a long process but…if you still want me around, in your life…I promise I am working on it a little bit each day.”

“I’ve noticed you changing,” Rebecca comments. “You chatter less and listen more. I wondered what was behind it.”

“Well, now you know.”

Silence stretches out between the two of them, the only sound the ticking of the clock behind Max’s head.

“Might I ask you some questions?” Rebecca asks, and the way she asks it is so uncharacteristically gentle that it shocks Max back into focus.

“I—yeah, sure.”

“Forgive me if they are…insensitive. This is new to me.”

Max nods.

“I’ve done some of the reading, what you let Connie borrow, and she told me what you told her, but I wish to hear it from you.”

“Okay.”

Rebecca leans back in her chair. “How is genderqueer different from being transsexual? They seem very similar to me.”

The pastor sighs. She feels like this is a question she is going to be answering for the rest of her life. “They are, in a way. I, personally, do not experience dysphoria, where I am uncomfortable with my body, but I know that is not the case with others. I think the main crux of it comes down to the fact that I don’t want to—and never have wanted to—be a man. I’ve wanted to reject traditional femininity, which is one of the reasons butch was so appealing to me. I like being androgynous. It is what makes me comfortable.”

Rebecca nods. Max continues.

“There are a lot of aspects of _womanhood_ that are attached with butch. Those make me _un_ comfortable. Femininity is… I have this…acute need to not be immediately read as female when someone looks at me. It drives most butches up the wall to be called ‘sir.’ For me, ‘sir’ is a badge of honor. It means I’ve confused them. But I’ve never wanted to _be_ a man. I’ve just wanted to be neutral, outside of the binary female and male presentations.”

“And your decision to go forward with female pronouns?”

Max shrugs. “I don’t know how to explain it. They just…feel right? I’m comfortable with them and being identified as having been born a woman, even if I don’t necessarily want my presentation to read as feminine. That is not to say this might not change in the future but for now…I’m fine with being referred to as ‘she.’”

“That almost seems conflicting to what you said earlier about not wanting to be instantly identified as a woman.”

The pastor sighs. “I can’t…it’s all very complicated, Becca. I don’t necessarily understand it myself. It’s just how I feel.”

The engineer makes a soft noise in her throat. “If nothing is changing about you, Max, besides your gender presentation, why bother coming out at all?”

“Why bothering coming out as a lesbian?” Max challenges.

“Touché.”

They sit there, evaluating each other over the table. Upon closer inspection, Max realizes that Rebecca has bags under her eyes, like she has been having a hard time sleeping. Max realizes with some shock that Rebecca might actually have lost just as much sleep as she had over the incident.

Rebecca shifts awkwardly in her chair. “Max…I realize that despite my apology, my behavior last week was unacceptable. If you are inclined to not want to—”

“Becca, it’s alright,” the pastor says softly, giving her a gentle smile. “I’ve already forgiven you.”

The engineer raises an eyebrow. “You have?”

“Isaiah forty-three twenty-six tells us to review the past and argue for innocence together, which we have done,” Max says, leaning forward to look Rebecca in the eye again. “I know you are no disciple of the Lord and his teachings, but I am. Forgiveness and love are one of the main lessons I have taken from Christianity, so before you called I had, at some level, forgiven you. But today, now that we’ve met, I forgave you because you proved to me that you were sincere in your attempt at healing. You came to me with your apologies, and your own insecurities, and we set everything out on the table.

“It doesn’t mean that what you said does not hurt. It did, and still does. The fact that you said it to me at all will continue to sting for a long time. But I have forgiven you, because you saw the error of your ways and reached out to me to begin to mend the pain you caused me. And I accept your apology, because I wish to keep you in my life.”

Rebecca’s expression of disbelief softens as Max speaks and when she finishes she nods once. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

A pause. “I’m still not coming to your church services.”

The pastor laughs at that, long and loud, rocking back into her chair in her mirth. Rebecca’s lips twitch into something that resembles a smile. When Max’s laughing fit subsides she smiles back and says, “I wouldn’t expect you to, Becca. The day you step foot in my sanctuary is the day I begin serious preparations for the second coming.”

That gets a genuine smile out of the engineer. Max treasures it, because she knows how rare it is to see Rebecca smile unguarded and candid. 

“It seems we fall back into banter without much thought,” Rebecca says after a moment, expression grim.

Max sighs. “It’s what we’re used to.”

“Quite.”

“I’m going to miss our back and forth. You keep me on my toes.”

Rebecca chuckles a little bit. “I don’t know necessarily that we have to stop.”

Max blinks and tilts her head like a confused puppy. “We don’t? But it makes you anxious.”

“Can we agree to no personal attacks?” The engineer asks. “And no flirting.”

Max nods. “Yes of course…besides, I have a girlfriend I can flirt with now.”

Rebecca rolls her eyes. “I’ve had a girlfriend for most of the time you’ve known me, but it hasn’t stopped you.”

The pastor grins sheepishly. “Yeah, I…have no excuse for that. I’m sorry. I won’t do it anymore.”

“Thank you.”

Max glances at her watch, noting it is almost two-thirty. “I should go before Sam decides you’ve killed me and calls the police.”

“Protective, your new girlfriend,” Rebecca says, pushing back from the table and rising without argument. “She had some choice words for me last week.”

Max stands as well. “She takes care of me.”

“That she does.” Rebecca hesitates. “I’m glad. It’s about time.”

The two of them walk down the hall to the foyer, where Max gets her shoes and coat out of the closet. Max leans on the wall to slide on her Vans. “So I’ll see you next week at the officer’s meeting?”

“Mmm.” A pause. Then, “Keep me up to date on your progress.”

It’s stiff, but obviously well meant. Max ducks her head as she puts on her coat to hide her smile. “What, us, talk to each other about our personal lives? Next thing you know we’ll be discussing our hobbies and sharing book reviews.”

Rebecca snorts. “Go home to your partner, Max.”

The pastor grins and opens the door. “Love ya, Becca. C’ya next week.”

“Goodbye, Max.”


	10. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honor of me meeting the human I based Max off of yesterday, here's the epilogue of Max and Sam! Enjoy :)

Max comes out to her congregation at Christmas service, because she wants to get it over with. Most are receptive, but there are a few who leave the church. Their rejection is expected, but it hurts nonetheless.

Max settles into being out and genderqueer with great aplomb. Nothing really changes, but she feels less like an imposter in her own skin. It materializes in her wardrobe; she’s more inclined to dress is ‘softer’ clothes than her usual business wear, although she still enjoys the armor those give her.

It doesn’t solve her anxiety. She still feels sometimes like she doesn’t belong in the Dykes. She feels like she doesn’t belong in a lot of places. She stays in therapy and works on it with Ria.

The years slowly pass.

.

.

.

Sam takes charge in many aspects of their combined lives, mostly at Max’s bequest when they both realize it is easier for her anxiety to follow along rather than try to make decisions for both herself _and_ Sam. Sometimes Max just needs to let someone else take charge in her life. Sam does not mind making most of the decisions, but always gives Max a voice in the process. Ria coaches them through it so that Sam does not feel abusive and Max feels less burdened, but where Max still has responsibilities.

 Sam takes over meal planning, but asks Max to find the recipes she’d like to cook. In turn, Max takes over doing most of the chores at home, like the laundry and cleaning. Sam takes out the trash and takes the recycling to the center twice a month. Sam collects and organizes all of the receipts, but Max does their taxes. Together they walk the dogs, just like they always have, and once a fortnight they pile the dogs one by one into the bathtub to give them a wash. The prosecutor sets up their schedule based on the one Max has already built, and buys both gala and honeycrisp apples at the farmers market so Max does not have to dither over one or the other.

Sam draws the line at making appointments for her, though—Max has to pick the dates and call herself.

Max and Rebecca also make slow progress. They both give each other books for Christmas and before they know it they are discussing their recent literary pursuits after officer meetings. Max reads more fantasy than Rebecca does, but they find a few series they have in common. Their joint interest in books does more to mend their relationship than thirty years as antagonistic acquaintances ever did. They swap queer literature and, when Max and Sam come over for dinner, get into heated debates about religious iconography in the Lord of the Rings and the applications of science to Harry Potter.

The switch from sass and flirting to literary discourse is a cause of much bemusement amongst the Dykes. Some of them, like Jesse, join in when Rebecca and Max get to talking books and queer pedagogy. Others stay out of it. Connie and Sam just roll their eyes in an exasperatedly fond way and watch them go at it.

In November 2003, the Supreme Judicial Court of Massachusetts declares that the state's ban on same-sex marriage unconstitutional. Massachusetts becomes the first state in the union to legalize gay marriage.

The first thing out of Sam’s mouth when she hears about the ruling is, “Finally we can get you some goddamn health insurance.”

Max laughs initially, but her anxiety almost immediately kicks into overdrive. “That’s…that’s not the only reason you want to get married…right?”

Sam softens and draws her partner into her arms. “Oh, baby, of course not.”

Max slides her arms around her waist and Sam leans in to kiss her tenderly.  Max’s eyes drift closed as Sam’s hand comes up to cup her face. The pastor shifts unconsciously side to side and she feels Sam smile against her lips before falling into her rhythm.

“Baby,” Sam says softly after she breaks the kiss, still keeping up with the rocking, “I want to marry you because you are the absolute love of my life.”

Max can’t help it. She smiles bashfully, which makes Sam smile in the way that makes Max fall in love with her all over again. “Even if I’m a nerdy, anxious, genderqueer mess?”

“ _Especially_ because you’re a nerdy, anxious, genderqueer mess.” Sam’s hand settles on her neck and her thumb strokes a gentle path along her jaw. “I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

-/-

As soon as the hundred eighty day ban passes, it seems like everyone Max knows gets married. Jack and Andrea are some of the first; they get married the day it becomes legal in 2004. So many people ask her to officiate their weddings that her weekends are booked for a solid six months.

Nothing gives her more happiness than officiating weddings, especially when it is for her friends and parishioners. Celebrating love, their kind of love, is nothing short of miraculous. Max never thought in a million years she would live to actually bind same-sex couples in holy matrimony in churches and assorted other venues all across Boston (and, in some cases, beyond).

But she has. And it’s for real. These aren’t commitment ceremonies in backyards or bars; they are real, official weddings, with official documentation and witnesses. The whole nine yards. It’s overwhelming and nerve-racking but so, so amazing.

It is with great pride that she accepts when Jamie and Erika ask her to be their officiant. She has watched Jamie grow up; she went from a scrawny baby butch who trailed after Jack like a lost puppy to a calm and confident paramedic. While everyone teases Jack and Andrea about their unofficially adopted daughter, Jamie is almost like the kid of all the Dykes. Telling Jamie and Erika to kiss, and watching Jamie sweep her new wife into her arms to do so, is one of the most surreal experiences of Max’s life.

.

.

.

Max and Sam get married early, too, to get Max on Sam’s health insurance. It’s quick, dirty, and simple. Five minutes in front of a magistrate and they are wives.

Not much changes. They still live together, they still walk the dogs together, and Max still brings Sam dinner when she works late in the office on a case. They live their lives like they had previously…they just have a wedding to plan around it, now.

A real wedding. A proper wedding. A church wedding.

The one Max has always secretly dreamed about, but never thought she’d get.

Sam has gotten married before, so that takes most of the confusion out of it. They want something simple; a ceremony and reception with minimal pomp and circumstance but supplemented by all of the people they love. They decide to hold the wedding in September, the month they met.

The entire church is excited for their pastor’s upcoming marriage ceremony. People come to her and Sam with advice; it stresses Max out to have all of this scrutiny, especially once her mother becomes involved.

“Our wedding shouldn’t be giving me this much anxiety,” Max whines softly as Sam presses against her from behind, gloriously naked and warm.

“I know, baby,” Sam says softly as her fingers skate teasingly along her wife’s hip bone. “Think of it this way, though…would I be about to dominate you senseless to help you re-center if you weren’t anxious?”

“No…”

Sam kisses her shoulder gently. “Then let’s focus more on that. After I’m done with you, we can focus on your wedding anxiety and how to address your mother.”

Max nods. Sam moves her kisses up to Max’s neck; the pastor shivers happily and leans back to submit fully to her wife.

They have more sex (and post-coital discussions about Max’s anxiety and medication trials and their relationship) in the sixth month lead up to their wedding than they had in the first few years of their relationship. It’s the one up side of the whole process; they both relish the excuse to spend time in bed together, especially when they are both so busy they often put sex to the wayside.

Max also relishes the excuse to go shopping for her suit. She loves getting new clothes, especially suits. Sam goes with her and greatly enjoys helping her decide between a series of increasingly tight grey suit pants. The light grey suit they settle on is nice, but the jacket is a bit loose on her because of the cut; they take it to a queer-friendly tailor to have it taken in so it fits Max’s slim frame.

A month before the wedding the Sam brings home a grey blazer with floral patterning and a matching tie for Max.

“I know I was going to wear the white suit,” Sam says, holding the blazer and tie up for Max’s critical eye, “but I saw these…”

Max runs to go get her suit and hands it off to Sam for her to hold. The dark grey of the blazer and Max’s lighter suit complement each other in such a way that the pastor gets goosebumps when she sees them next to each other.

“Yes,” Max says. “Please wear that.” 

Sam grins and Max has never been more excited to wear clothes in her life.

Clothes that makes her feel handsome, and _right_ , and gloriously genderqueer. Clothes that are going to make her feel authentic while she’s standing beside her amazingly supportive wife. She’s so ready.

The day of the wedding finds her in her office, getting dressed. She’s more nervous than she ever has been before. Not before when she spoke in front of a crowd of parishioners for the first time, or when she told her parents she was gay, or when she introduced Sam to the Dykes for the first time.

She shakes her hands and bounces up and down to get rid of the nervous energy, fiddles with her stones in her pocket. She’s on medication now, and it helps somewhat, but not when she is like this.

She meets up with Sam in the narthex of the church right before they walk down the aisle together, all of it melts away. Sam looks so handsome, in the blazer and her white pants and her perfectly buzzed, bleached, lined hair. She’s smiling that full-mouthed, all teeth smile that makes Max’s stomach flip flop.

“You look so good,” Max whispers.

“So do you, baby,” Sam says, and closes the distance between then. She reaches up and straightens Max’s waistcoat and tie, still smiling. “Definitely looks better without the suit coat.”

“Thank you.” Max’s voice wavers and Sam catches the tears before they track down her cheeks. “Sorry... I just can’t believe this is happening.”

Sam smiles and steals a kiss from her. “I know. Me either.”

The pastor giggles nervously and reaches forward to play with the buttons on her wife’s blazer. “Hey, Sam?”

“Yeah, baby?”

Max pouts. “…You’re supposed to say ‘Yeah, Max.’”

Sam laughs fondly and wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her close. “My bad. Yeah, Max?”

 Max smiles softly and leans in to kiss her gently. “I love you so much.”

Behind them, the sound of the organ starting up goes unnoticed as they stand in front of the sanctuary doors, entwined in one another and staring into each other’s eyes. Sam’s free hand gently traces down the line of Max’s jaw and she brushes a thumb over her chapped lips. “Oh, baby. I love you, too.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for taking this journey with me. I had no idea Max's story would expand out the way it did, nor did I know it would touch so many people. You won't see the last of Max and Sam, of course, but this little part of their story is done. 
> 
> I'm not sure who is next--Jack and Andrea, Jamie, and Al are all vying for attention right now. Whose story would you like to see?


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